


Release the Controls

by Astrum_Ululatum



Series: Precious Metals [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bisexual Percival Graves, Deaf Character, Deaf Percival Graves, Depression, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9440480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrum_Ululatum/pseuds/Astrum_Ululatum
Summary: “This is all good and well,” Percival tells the Goldsteins, “but what about the egg that will inevitably become an occamy that lives in my coat pocket?”Tina furrows her brow and puts on a stern scowl; she stares.“Mr. Graves doesn’t answer personal questions,” Queenie says seriously.- - -Six months later, Porpentina Goldstein frees Percival Graves from his prison. He recovers, he returns to work, and he learns how to cope and how to move on and how to let people back in after crippling betrayal. Then he meets Newt Scamander and he has to learn how to deal with an eccentric Brit who somehow worms his way into Percival's heart, one bright smile at a time.





	1. Recover

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song "Mercury" by Sleeping at Last
> 
> Yet I know, if I stepped aside  
> Released the controls, you would open my eyes  
> That somehow, all of this mess  
> Is just my attempt to know the worth of my life…
> 
> -
> 
> This is also un-beta'd so please excuse any spelling/grammatical errors. I, myself, am not deaf, so if I get anything wrong, let me know and I'll fix it right away. Umm... but this is also wizarding 1920s New York so we're suspending reality quite a bit already, so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 2/18: I somehow managed to completely erase six months of time in this story??? It's meant to take place a week after Newt leaves New York and then halfway through the chapter I'm all "mid-June" like... wtf??? So I fixed that.

Six months later, after an immeasurable length of time spent in true solitude (with no sight or sound or hint of his captor), Porpentina Goldstein frees Percival Graves from his prison. She has a pair of Aurors with her and clearly none of them anticipated _actually_ finding Percival trapped in his own apartment. Despite the brief false start, Goldstein recovers herself admirably and begins barking orders at her underlings in a manner that rings of her training under Percival himself. If he wasn’t so muzzy with pain, he’d be damn proud of her.

She gets him unbound and performs a preliminary medical examination—as all Aurors ought to be capable of—while waiting for backup to arrive and comes across a jarring realization. Her attempts to share this realization go unheard as Percival is too dizzy and weakened to focus on anything other than thoughts of _it’s finally over, thank Merlin it’s finally over._ And the next thing he knows, he’s staring at the plain white ceiling of St. Agatha’s Center for the Treatment of Magical Maladies and Injuries and all he feels is a pleasant warmth.

The splitting migraine that has afflicted him since his capture is blessedly gone. The knee that Grindelwald shattered halfway through is mended to the best of the Head Healer’s ability and feels vaguely tingly. His stomach is no longer trying to eat itself and the full-body tremors brought on by periods of starvation interspersed with infrequent, insufficient meals have subsided. By no means does Percival feel hale and healthy once more, but he feels a hell of a lot better than he did before. It doesn’t even occur to him then that the room is, perhaps, _too_ quiet.

It occurs to him about an hour later when the sudden appearance of the Head Healer Curio at the foot of his bed causes him to startle violently enough to jar his injured knee rather painfully. Healer Curio apparently immediately launched into a spiel on Percival’s recovery and release upon entering the room. The fact that Percival did not hear her entrance is perturbing.

Twenty minutes and several intensive spells later, Healer Curio determines that Percival’s ears were more deeply damaged than she realized and that it is sadly too late to recover his hearing. Another unheard incantation over a sheet of parchment and the Healer’s words scrawl themselves across the page. Percival is too wrapped in shock to really take in the written words, but he gets the gist of it. He’s as healed as he can be; the numbness in his knee is due to a spell keeping away the deep ache of muscle reparation. He’ll be cleared to leave in two weeks, maximum, depending on how well he eats and how much weight he regains. He’ll have to use a cane if he wants to walk around to keep pressure off his bad knee and it’s likely he’ll have to keep using the cane to walk around for several months. There’s only so much magical healing can do for a joint as thoroughly obliterated as Percival’s was and, in the end, only time can mend it fully.

What all this really comes down to, Percival realizes with a sinking stone in his stomach, is that he can’t be an Auror anymore. He can’t be an Auror if he can’t hear what spells an assailant is casting. He can’t be an Auror if he can’t so much as walk without aid. He can’t be an Auror.

Percival slumps back into the pillows and stares at the ceiling. His life is over. He had _thought_ his life ended the night Grindelwald got the jump on him and in his own home, no less. Then the dark wizard didn’t kill him, but kept him alive so he could scavenge Percival’s memories at his convenience. And now… Now his life really is over and he has to live through it.

Healer Curio touches his foot to get his attention and gestures to the paper when Percival looks at her. The parchment now reads: ‘ _You have a visitor, if you feel up for seeing her.’_

Her. Percival doesn’t need to ask to know who his visitor is. He and Seraphina Picquery went to Ilvermorny together—though _together_ is a loose term, as she is three years his senior. Regardless, they were familiar enough with each other at school during their overlapping years and became even more familiar when he joined her in Auror training. A few awkward kisses and a bit of fumbling under the skirt and they both quickly realized they were better off as friends. These days—or at least, _these days_ as it applied six months ago when the Director Graves who walked MACUSA’s halls was still, in fact, Director Graves—Percival and Picquery both would be hard pressed to admit to being more than mere colleagues. It’s simply in their natures to be reserved.

Given the reality of the situation, however, Percival has no doubt Seraphina would waste no breath denying that she cares for him.

Percival nods his consent to Healer Curio and the medi-witch bustles out of the room. A minute later, Picquery floats in and conjures herself a comfortable chair at his bedside despite having plenty already present to choose from. It’s clear by her expression that she has been made aware of Percival’s new disability and she makes no attempt to speak to him. Instead, she taps the parchment with her wand and her elegant handwriting fills the page.

_‘There are no words to convey the entirety of my grief for what has happened to you. I cannot possibly express the guilt and the shame that I feel for not recognizing that you had been replaced. I’ve been driving myself insane going over these past months, searching for a clue I missed or anything that ought to have given him away if I’d only paid better attention. The Department was so busy and everyone—I, included—was so distracted… But there is no excuse. Not for this. Truly, Percival, I am so very sorry. Please, take all the time you need to recover and, if by then, you still feel you cannot return to your post, I will accept your resignation. With protest, of course.’_

Percival looks at her sharply. She cannot be serious. Seraphina meets his eyes unblinkingly and there is nothing but earnest determination in her expression. Typical Picquery. She taps the parchment again and Percival continues reading.

 _‘You’re the best Auror the Department has seen since I was the Director.'_ Percival snorts; of course she’d say that. ' _I’m not going to waste time trying to find a new Director when I still have a perfectly good one on payroll.’_

Perfectly good. Percival nearly rolls his eyes.

“I’m deaf,” he wheezes. He winces when the attempted speech scratches his disused throat; he hasn’t made a sound other than the occasional scream of agony in months. He tries to clear his throat and begins to cough violently. Picquery places a cool hand on his and holds out a glass of water.

“Little sips,” her mouth shapes and Percival obeys. He doesn’t think he could manage more than that anyway. The cold water is heaven as it slides down his throat and he can’t hold back the sigh of relief. When he recovers, Picquery taps the parchment.

_‘You may be deaf now, but you’re still one hell of a wizard. You haven’t verbally cast a spell since you were fifteen years old anyway.’_

Fourteen, actually, but Percival lets the error slide. He shakes his head. He doesn’t have his wand, has no idea what that madman has done with it, and he doesn’t feel strong enough to attempt wandless magic. This total lack of communicability may just drive him over the edge. Mercifully, Picquery has always had the uncanny ability to read people and know just what to say. This is probably why she makes such an effective president. It also makes Percival wonder how good an imposter Grindelwald was if even _Picquery_ failed to notice.

_‘There are plenty of ways to work around a disability. You know that. So, believe me when I say that I won’t allow any attempts to quit until after you’ve made a sufficient effort to try. That being said, I also won’t allow you to go out into the field until we have properly Made This Work and until that time, you’re on desk duty. I’ve had a look in your office and there’s a hell of a lot of paperwork to catch up on.’_

There’s a pause and then another line of writing appears.

_‘Get some rest. I’ll come back tomorrow with a full report of everything you missed.’_

Percival nods. He doesn’t try to argue, because he has no way to make an argument anyway. But he also can’t help wonder if she even knows how long he has been gone. Did MACUSA capture Grindelwald and make him tell them how long he’d been replacing the Director? Were his injuries telling enough that the Healers worked out a rough estimate? Meanwhile, Percival had been locked in his bedroom and forced to stare at his charmed clock while the minutes and hours and days ticked by.

“Six months,” he breathes, trying not to use his vocal chords while still making his words audible.

“I know.” Picquery’s expression is briefly wretched with guilt before she pulls herself back together. She clasps his hand briefly in her own and then rises fluidly and sweeps out of the room. Percival watches her conjured chair dissipate and the cursive on the parchment fade away. He spends the rest of the afternoon listening to the ringing silence and forcing himself to finish the gentle, easy-to-digest meals brought to him for lunch and dinner.

The next morning, after Percival has eaten the last of his lightly-honeyed and still horribly bland porridge, Porpentina Goldstein enters his room. Her steps are somewhat hesitant and she’s clutching a thick brown folder in both hands. Percival, personally, would like to know what happened to the confident young Auror he’d been mentoring _Before_. Goldstein hands over the folder, fat with case files and important memos from his absence, and from her coat pocket she produces his wand.

The wand warms in his hands and glows briefly golden at the tip. Clearly, his wand is as happy to be returned as Percival is.

“Thank you, Goldstein,” he rasps. He can’t seem to suppress the instinct to answer verbally despite his inability to hear his own words and the pain it causes. He presses a hand to the base of his neck while he clears his throat and winces at the ache.

“Sure thing, boss,” she says. She makes no move to pick up the parchment on the bedside table nor does she appear even the slightest bit aware of his new deafness. She lingers for a moment, seeming to debate with herself about something, and then comes to an apparent decision and launches into what Percival is sure is a heartfelt speech. Unfortunately, he can’t understand anything she’s saying as she’s speaking too fast and, as good as his lip reading is, he can’t follow her mouth when she ducks her head. He catches several _sorry_ ’s, though, and can only imagine that Goldstein is trying to apologize for what happened to him as if any of it had to do with her.

He holds up a hand that halts her in her tracks.

“Stop, Goldstein,” he whispers. He doesn’t want to risk showing his hand by speaking too loudly nor does he want to irritate his throat any further if he can help it. “Just stop. There’s no apologizing for this.” She opens her mouth, probably starts to speak again, but Percival gives her a look and she desists. “You’re not responsible for what happened, so stop.”

That and Percival really does not want to think about how _no one_ noticed he was replaced for _six months_. Was he really so alienated from his staff, his colleagues, that he is indistinguishable from a dark wizard wearing his face? He likes to keep his personal life to himself, doesn’t allow for crossover between the office and his home, and prefers not to socialize too closely with his staff for the sake of maintaining professionalism. But does that really make him comparable to a dark wizard, to the kind of wicked and foul person he became an Auror to protect people from?

Goldstein nods, hesitates momentarily, and then pulls up a chair at his bedside.

“If you’d like, sir,” she says, slower now, thank goodness, “I could go over those case files with you.”

Percival considers for a minute, weighing the possibilities and the likelihood of her figuring him out. He could spend hours on end sousing through pages and pages of near unintelligible handwriting and getting only the bare-boned facts _or_ he could take Goldstein’s offer and get a far more detailed account. If he has to confide in someone, he supposes, Tina Goldstein is the best person he could ask for.

“That would be appreciated,” he says, “and if you could face me directly when you speak, that would also be very helpful.”

The look she gives him is both bemused and rather wary. She doesn’t quite seem to understand what Percival is implying, so he relents.

“I can’t hear you.”

Admitting his newest and perhaps greatest flaw to Tina feels more like a blow than admitting it to Picquery did. Perhaps because Picquery was already aware and here Tina has no idea. He stares the folder, deliberately avoiding looking at Tina because he finds he is actually _worried_ about what her reaction will be. He’s just suffered an enormous fall from grace—been captured and tormented and used like a human Pensieve—and now he has to face the fact that he is irrevocably changed. He is less than what and who he used to be; no longer the Director of Magical Security, but a hospital patient and the broken victim of a dark wizard. There is no coming back from this, there is no regaining what he has lost, and for the first time since he woke up in this room he feels wretched about it. There is a grief pooling in his chest, sitting like stones on his lungs and wrapping icy fingers around his heart.

He dedicated his life, his _being_ , to his job and his duties and now… Now there is nothing.

Tina gains his attention with a soft touch to the back of his hand. He meets her eyes and then watches her lips.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”  She smiles earnestly and a little bit of weight lifts from Percival’s shoulders.

 

\- - -

 

After being released from St. Agatha’s a week later, Percival checks into a hotel and sets about ending his lease on his apartment. Tina volunteers to box up his belongings for him under the pretense of him focusing on his recovery and not putting undue stress on his knee. Percival is immensely grateful for her discretion and understanding. He spends the next few evenings searching for a new apartment in an entirely different neighborhood.

Part of his deal with Picquery, made through Tina who has helpfully and stubbornly inserted herself into Percival’s life (whether out of loyalty left over from _Before_ or out of guilt, he hasn’t the heart to wonder), Percival spends his first week out of the hospital seeing a therapist. The witch he meets with is portly and cherry-cheeked and the very definition of non-threatening. She’s also sharp as a tack and will not accept negativity of any kind. At first, Percival is horrified by her upfront personality, so gratingly different from his, but she slowly and surely wears him down and wins him over.

By the end of their first meeting, the little witch, Miss Mathilda Merry, discovers that Percival does not need the enchanted parchment for face-to-face conversation and advises he no longer bring it to her office. By the end of the first week, she has helped him gain the confidence to try speaking at a normal volume by suggesting he rest his fingertips at the base of his throat to feel the vibrations of his voice.

On Saturday, he finally has a new apartment to move into and Tina drags her sister along to help him unpack. Queenie, he finds, is excellent company and not nearly as air-headed as she makes herself seem. Her natural Legilimency allows Percival to be as silent as he pleases and still be able to converse with her—not having to verbalize and worry about raising or lowering his volume while shuffling boxes and belongings around comes as a great relief.

Percival spends the next two weeks seeing Mathilda Merry every morning and slowly, painfully, reliving his ordeal and then meeting Queenie for a quiet lunch. Queenie was the one to suggest these lunches; wordlessly taking initiative just like her older sister with the added benefit of knowing precisely what Percival needs at any given time. She tells the waitresses his orders and murmurs reassurances when his thoughts go dark and chatters happily about her day when he needs to focus on something bright.

“We got an owl from Newt last night,” she says excitedly on Thursday of the second week. “He says his book in its final stages and should be ready for publishing by the end of the month! Teenie and I are thrilled!”

 _Scamander_? Percival wonders. He immediately pictures the Auror and war hero Theseus Scamander, whom he’d met briefly some years ago during a Ministry-held ceremony to honor fallen soldiers. Theseus was vivid, boisterous and loud, but there was an emptiness in his eyes—the same emptiness Percival saw in every surviving soldier. He said maybe five words to the man, all generic and pleasant, and that was that. Everything else he knows of Theseus Scamander was learned through the newspapers and the occasional crossover between the British Ministry and the MACUSA.

He only knows through the case reports that Theseus has a younger brother called Newt who was recently in New York and pivotal in revealing Percival’s imposter.

“That’s the one,” says Queenie. “He’s a total cutie, real sweet and just the nicest thing. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon, he’s gonna come back to visit once his book is published. Promised Tina he’d bring her a copy and everything.”

When Percival mentions Newt Scamander’s impending visit the next day, Mathilda immediately encourages him to agree to meet the young man. It would be good for him, she insists, and would help him gain closure. Percival nods and says he’ll do so with the vague sort of promise one typically uses for something that is too far off to properly consider. Mathilda probably knows this, but she doesn’t press him any further. Instead, she moves on to the next topic: returning to work.

“I see no reason you cannot return to work,” she tells him matter-of-factly.

Percival gives her a flat stare. “I think losing one of my five essential senses is a damn good reason.”

“And _I think_ we have more than determined that you are perfectly capable of functioning with four senses,” she returns smartly. “We have been talking for three weeks now and we have had zero miscommunications.”

“What happens when I’m called into a meeting?” Percival asks curtly. “I can’t possibly follow a conversation or a debate involving upwards of ten people, often speaking over each other and at the same time.”

“In that case, bring your enchanted parchment and _read_ along.”

“That would be a bit obvious and I would be outed as deaf to an entire board of officials. That would be less than ideal.”

Mathilda sighs and shakes her head at him. “Do we need to review my rules on pessimism, Percival?”

Percival scowls. He’d prefer she doesn’t, but he honestly can’t see himself being able to successfully return to work. Not only is it impractical and irresponsible, but it’s also _dangerous_. He’ll be assigned desk duty for the rest of his career, doomed to monotonous paperwork and waiver signing and reviewing regulations. He will never go out into the field again and if he can’t take part in an investigation, he may as well quit.

He has tried to explain this to Mathilda already, but she—ironically—wouldn’t hear it. She just shakes her head at him and continues insisting that he is perfectly capable. So he doesn’t try to re-explain any of it to her now, well aware that she will respond the exact same way.

“Has the President ever implied that she doesn’t think you are fit to return to work?” Mathilda asks, knowing full well that the answer is _no, she has not_. Percival purses his lips and Mathilda carries on smugly. “So if not that, I can’t imagine what could be holding you back. Unless, perhaps, it’s because you’re afraid?”

Percival narrows his eyes at her.

 

\- - -

 

Percival charms his new front door to open only at his touch and to identify everyone who knocks. He adds layers of enchantment to negate the effectiveness of unlocking spells and to require his similarly enchanted apartment key to move the deadbolt. He _also_ places Notice-Me-Not and No-Maj Repellent spells for extra security. Percival won’t say he’s become paranoid since his capture, just given an increased sense of personal safety. The irony of the _Director of Security_ having his apartment broken into is one that burns like a shameful ember in his stomach.

Percival sets up similar enchantments on his bedroom door to keep it automatically locked from the outside. The knob will only turn under his hand and it can always— _always_ —be opened from the inside. Never again will Percival be trapped in his own bedroom.

Proximity alarms let him know if anyone comes within two feet of his front door: a short enough range to ignore the regular foot traffic of other tenants and their guests, but close enough to ping anyone who approaches his door with intent. There is a matching charm on his bedroom door that alerts him before anyone knocks or tries the knob. Percival is leaving no room for surprises.

The entire apartment is warded against intruders and theft; no one can enter while Percival is away and no one can enter while he is present without his knowing. Regardless of all his precautions, Percival still finds himself unable to sleep at night. He lies on his back with his hands folded over his stomach and stares at the ceiling for hours. Sometimes he dozes and when he does, his mind fills with swirling darkness and images of an ashen face with an oily smile. He takes a Sleeping Draught on his first night home and finds himself locked in a nightmare, reliving his captivity and watching the walls ooze red. After that, he switches to Dreamless Sleep, but forces himself to cut back when Mathilda warns him about becoming dependent.

So now he watches the ceiling and has a nightcap of Dreamless Sleep when he can take no more.

 

\- - -

 

After a month of daily meetings, Mathilda and Percival agree to dial it back to Tuesdays and Thursdays. He has made incredible progress and he’s almost ready to return to work—which Percival is still not sold on, but Mathilda continues to insist is going to happen. He needs to stop hiding in his fortified apartment, she tells him, he needs to regain his confidence. Percival doesn’t believe he is lacking self-confidence, but Queenie, during their next luncheon, levels him with a look that is rather telling. She goes on to insist he accompany her on regular strolls around the city and pesters and wheedles until he sighs and relents just to shut her up.

On Percival’s first empty Monday, Queenie shows up at his apartment with a paper bag of delicious smelling pastries and a dazzling pink-lipped smile.

“I’ve got breakfast,” she sings when he opens the door for her, floating past him in a cloud of subtle perfume. She goes directly to Percival’s small kitchen, flicking her wand and summoning a couple of plates from the cabinet and setting the table. Then she plates the pastries and goes about brewing a pot of coffee.

“Please, Miss Goldstein,” he says drily, “make yourself at home.”

“Thanks, honey!” Queenie says pertly, twisting smartly to face him so he can read her lips.

Percival chuckles quietly and takes a seat. The pastry, he’s surprised to find, is shaped like a creature. It’s crisped golden and dusted with powdered sugar with a pair of tiny raisin eyes. He doesn’t know what sort of animal it’s meant to be, but it’s definitely of the magical variety. He looks up at his guest with a quirked eyebrow and finds her settling across from him with two mugs of fresh coffee and a fond smile as she looks at her own pastry.

“They’re from a band new bakery,” she tells him cheerfully. “Ain’t they cute?”

“Very cute,” says Percival, mostly humoring her.

They eat in companionable silence, enjoying delicious pastries and well-brewed coffee. Afterwards, Queenie goes right ahead with cleaning up and then ushers Percival to his front door. She doesn’t stop long enough for him to pin her down for questioning and he barely has time to summon his coat and put on his shoes before she ushers him out the door. He spares a passing thought for the cane leaning against the coatrack, but is unable to grab it on the way out. He manages three flights of stairs well enough and thinks he might be alright without it. Just this once.

On the stoop, when the weak winter sun hits him, Percival can’t help pausing to tilt his face upward into its warmth. Lately, he goes no further than the nearest alley to Disapparate to Mathilda’s office and hasn’t stopped to enjoy the weather. He feels like this is the first time in years that he has felt the fresh air and the sun’s heat on his skin. He sighs, eyes sliding closed, and he knows what sad picture he must make. Percival is aware of how sallow he has become, of the bags under his eyes and the hollowness in his cheeks. There’s more silver in his hair than there ought to be and sometimes his hands tremble with weakness and phantom pain. Mathilda has told him time and again to simply be outside, waxed about the healing powers of nature, but Percival can never quite bring himself to venture out alone.

Queenie, bless her, waits quietly a polite distance away until Percival is ready to continue.

It’s a cool, mid-February day, the harshness of winter tempered by its approaching end and the promise of warmer days written in the crispness of the air and diminishing levels of snow. Still, Percival would have liked a scarf, but he settles for snugging the collar of his coat around his neck. Queenie, for her part, looks dazzling as usual in a pale pink coat with a fur-lined collar and a matching cap nestled over her hair. She takes his elbow and bumps her shoulder to his companionably as they walk, leading him with no particular destination in mind. After a few blocks, his knee begins to ache, unused to so much continuous walking and already sore after the stairs. He tries to silently bear the discomfort, but such efforts are always fruitless in Queenie’s company.

The younger Goldstein pulls him into a discreet corner and opens up her purse. Judging by the way her entire forearm slips easily into the small silky bag, it’s safe to assume the use of an Undetectable Extension Charm. Seconds later, Queenie withdraws an unused pencil and transfigures it into a cane with a handsome silver handle shaped like a wampus. She presses it wordlessly into Percival’s hand and then retakes his elbow and guides him back out to the sidewalk. They walk for several more blocks before Queenie tugs him across the street with a greater sense of purpose.

They end up in Central Park, sitting on an isolated bench cleared of snow and watching people pass by. After a few minutes, Queenie touches his arm lightly to get his attention.

“Tina’s off probation today,” she tells him giddily. “She’s officially an investigator again!”

“That’s wonderful news,” Percival says sincerely. “Congratulations.”

Since Tina’s demotion had been ordered by Grindelwald and the necessary signature therefore forged, the elder Goldstein was _technically_ never reassigned to Wand Permits. After all the chaos following Grindelwald’s capture, Percival’s rescue, and general sweeping up in the department, Tina’s situation was eventually seen to. It was decided that Tina has more than paid her dues for the incident with the Second Salemers, disproportionate a punishment it may have been, but would only be reinstated _to an extent_ due to her involvement in the events that culminated in a destroyed subway tunnel and a borough-wide Obliviation.

“She’s real excited,” Queenie gushes. “Auror Abasi signed off on the end of probation, since he’s been acting as the Head of the Department while you’re on sick leave. Tina says he’s been an excellent Head and he’s been very supportive of her.”

Omar Abasi is one of MACUSA’s most senior Aurors and is certainly qualified to take over as Director. In fact, he couldn’t ask for a better replacement. Abasi has all the qualities Percival values in an Auror and indeed shares many of Percival’s own characteristics, the only major differences being that Abasi is friendlier and very well-liked. Should Omar Abasi be attacked and replaced, the imposter would be realized before the day was done.

“Why is Abasi only acting as Director?” Percival asks. “Why hasn’t he been promoted?”

Queenie has a funny expression on her face, one he’s seen on Mathilda many times before. “Why would he be? It’s _your_ job, Mr. Graves.”

“Mercy Lewis,” he mutters to himself, looking away in disbelief. To Queenie, he says, “Do I need to personally hand in my resignation?”

Queenie startles him by grabbing his arm and pulling him around to face her. There is a glow of determination in her eyes and stubbornness in the set of her jaw and Percival can only imagine the tone she takes with him when she speaks next.

“You listen here, Mr. Graves,” she says and pauses only fractionally to grimace at her choice of word. “The only person keeping you from working again is _you_. Picquery’s all but announced that you’re back in your role the minute you feel ready and she’s not gonna budge on that. Everyone’s willing to make this work, everyone who _knows_ , because we all think that if anyone should do this job, it has to be _you_. Are you…” Queenie hesitates, steels herself, and then barrels on: “Are you gonna let that creep take _this_ from you as well?”

 _No one knew he took it in the first place_.

The thought crosses Percival’s mind unbidden, there before he can block it out from Queenie’s reach. His Occlumency hasn’t been up to snuff lately, thanks to his lack of decent sleep. The younger Goldstein’s hand gentles on his arm, sympathy swells up in her eyes, and Percival has to say something to derail her before she speaks.

“It would be irresponsible of me to return to work,” he says tightly. “My…disability makes me unreliable in the field and would cause countless needless problems in the office. You know me, Miss Goldstein, I cannot abide irresponsibility.”

Childish as it may be, but Percival doesn’t look at her mouth again for the remainder of the afternoon. He doesn’t want to read any arguments or quick-fix solutions she comes up with.

 

\- - -

 

_The ropes cut into his skin, leave bloody oozing welts around his wrists and make his hands feel numb. His bedroom has never felt so small and so barren, so much like a prison. Claustrophobia is his newest affliction and it steals the oxygen from his lungs and he is gasping for breath and pulling desperately at the collar of his shirt. He cannot breathe, cannot pull the air into his lungs, he is crumbling from the inside out. He is dying, he is dying, he is going to die here with his hollow stomach and shriveled lungs and split head and bloody wrists. He is going to die and nobody will know because there is a man wearing his face. He is slowly, horribly dying at the hands of a man wearing his face and using his wand. He is going to die and nobody will know._

 

\- - -

 

“Nobody _knew_!” Percival cries, dropping his head into his hands, elbows propped on his knees. It’s Tuesday and he is slumped over in his preferred chair in Mathilda’s office and he feels like he is suffocating. “Nobody knew. I can’t… I keep circling back to that. _Nobody knew_. Not even Seraphina and we _trained_ together! How could she not…? Am I really so cold, so… _unpleasant_ that I am indistinguishable from a _dark wizard_?”

The portly witch seated before him leans forward and places a light hand on his forearm. When she has his attention, she asks, “Is that why you don’t want to go back? Because you’re angry that no one knew?”

His usual tirade about responsibility and safety fizzles out on his tongue and Percival finds himself frozen in the face of the truth.

“You’ve made remarkable progress,” Mathilda continues, “and in only a month. You are a truly determined individual and very driven. I can see why you were promoted to Director so young. You are a talented and highly accomplished wizard, Percival Graves. You don’t strike me as someone at all concerned about what _others_ think of you and if they think you’re cold and unpleasant, then so be it. You’ve come a long way just by being who you are, too far to let anything—and I mean _anything_ —stop you from carrying on.”

“I’m deaf,” he whispers. “Even if I did go back, even if I could… I will still be deaf and that will still be dangerous for everyone around me.”

Mathilda searches his face with shrewd eyes and pursed lips.

“Stop holding yourself back,” she says at last. “If you can go from starved and tormented to taking a morning stroll in the span of a month, then finding a way to work with your disability should be simple. So, tell me, why are you holding yourself back? Why are you afraid to go back to work?”

“Because nobody knew!” he shouts. He feels the volume of his own voice vibrating in his throat and irritating the old soreness in his vocal chords. He presses a hand to the base of his throat as he coughs, clears his voice, and says levelly, “Nobody. Knew. And I can’t help wondering if the only reason I’m being offered my job back is because they feel guilty. I don’t want to work in a place where no one can look me in the eye out of shame or pity. I don’t want to be employed because my boss _feels bad_ for letting me down in the most horrendous way. I don’t want… I don’t want any of this.” Percival swallows dryly, takes the glass on the little table next to him, and drinks deeply. When he’s done, he sighs heavily and drags his hands through his hair and slouches in his seat.

“Prove them wrong,” says Mathilda.

“What?”

“Prove them wrong. Let them look at you with pity or guilt and then prove to them that you don’t need it. Can you be brave, Percival? Will you go back and prove them wrong?”

 

\- - -

 

Tina knocks on his door on Thursday evening. Percival’s session with Mathilda was exhausting, more than the last one was, because she kept pestering about _confidence_ and brain-storming solutions to a problem he can’t fathom solving. But he can’t ignore Tina, no matter how much he wants to. She’s a persistent thing and ignoring her will only make matters worse.

Percival opens the door to Tina’s sheepish face and a small wooden box held in front of her. Wordlessly, he steps aside and lets her in. She smiles widely and hurries into his living room; he follows more sedately, wondering what Tina could possibly be up to. When Percival approaches her, she thrusts the box into his hands and launches into an exuberant explanation.

"Abasi and I busted a pair of smugglers today," she tells him, clearly focusing on keeping her face towards him and not speaking too quickly. "We found a cabinet with an Extension Charm that was being used as a hatchery for occamy eggs. Most of them were smashed—one of the smugglers was trying to destroy them before Abasi stunned him, but. There was still one intact."

She stops there so Percival can open the box and reveal, as he suspected, a pale bluish egg. It's a simple thing, very innocuous, but he knows that under the color, the egg is pure silver and incredibly valuable. He's not sure what Tina means for him to do with it. He looks back at her and quirks an eyebrow, waiting for further explanation.

"See, I've been writing to Newt and he suggested getting you a kneazle." Percival frowns and she backtracks hastily. "I was asking him about companion creatures to help you know when someone is trying to verbally get your attention. If someone comes up behind you and they call your name, you won't hear it. But if you had a creature, they could nudge you or subtly get your attention so you won't be startled by a person appearing at your side or accidentally ignore them."

Percival makes a small "ah" sound and nods. He wonders if Queenie is also in on this or if the sisters are always this in tune with each other as they seem to have banded together to harangue him into wellness. God forbid they every come into contact with Mathilda and bless the man who came up with doctor/patient confidentiality.

Regardless, Tina’s thoughtfulness is touching and Percival finds himself rather impressed with her initiative and ingenuity. He doesn't think he would have ever thought to employ a creature as a means to work around deafness, not in this line of work anyway. He gestures for Tina to carry on, intrigued.

She beams. "Well, I told Newt that a kneazle isn't quite up your alley, but if we could find you a bowtruckle or something that could sit in your pocket, that'd be perfect. The trouble with bowtruckles, though, is that they live in large groups in trees. Pickett is the one exception."

Percival doesn't know who Pickett is, but he hazards to guess that he's a bowtruckle.

Tina continues: "Newt says that it's possible any small creature would do if we introduce it to you at a young age. That way they grow up seeing you as a guardian or authority figure and will easily to adapt to your needs and... Well. Then we found this occamy egg, so I told the Beast Division that I knew somewhere to possibly relocate it... According to Newt, they imprint on the first living thing they see after hatching and they're very protective of their family."

Percival stares at the egg, nestled in the box amidst a bed of straw. It is perhaps the size of his fist and the pastel color lends it a feeling of fragility. He lifts it gently and cradles it in his palms; it’s warm and heavier than he expected it to be. And he finds he cannot say no.

“Thank you,” he says, unable to look away from this gorgeous little egg. “This is very thoughtful, Tina. I…” He clears his throat. “Thank you.”

He looks up so she can reply.

She’s beaming, rightfully proud of herself, but there’s definite relief in the slump of her shoulders. “Of course, sir. I’ll have Newt send you his notes on occamys, but for now just keep it warm and wait for it to hatch.”

“And hopefully that won’t be until _after_ I learn how to care for it,” Percival adds wryly.

“Fingers crossed, boss,” Tina says. “I’ll get out of your way now.”

She gives him a polite nod and then she’s gone. Percival is left with an egg and something almost optimistic unfurling in his chest.

 

\- - -

 

 _His back is slammed against the wall. His head_ cracks _against the plaster and his vision swims dizzyingly. Through the haze, he sees the walls ooze red and it takes him a minute to realize the red is only in his eyes. The laceration that follows his hairline has opened up again, fragile because it has never been allowed to fully heal. The man before him, sneering with his mouth and glaring with his eyes, presses harder against his chest._

_As if from a great distance, he hears his own voice speaking to him. “I’m having such fun with your colleagues. That Goldstein, she’s live-wire, isn’t she? It’s too bad I can’t keep her around.”_

_The tip of his own wand twists against his temple, exacerbating the continuous headache and making him cry out. A silvery thread is withdrawn, a shining and beautiful juxtaposition to the dreary prison around it._

 

\- - -

 

Percival keeps the egg on his person at all times, tucked away in a specially enchanted pocket to keep it warm and safe. He’d rather risk it hatching while he’s out (infrequently as that this) and have to hurry home than have it hatch alone in its box. Two days after receiving it, the egg shows no sign of change and Percival sometimes forgets that he has it. It has become a familiar and comfortable weight that he no longer takes real notice of.

“We have six junior Aurors coming in soon,” Tina says over lunch, between unladylike bites of sandwich. Next to her, Queenie is ever the opposite of her sibling and is making quick and delicate work of a lush salad.

“Since so many people got fired after…” Tina trails off and finishes the sentence with a significant raise of her eyebrows. They’re lunching in a popular diner in a primarily magical corner of town; it isn’t no-maj ears Tina is being careful of. “A lot of people had been replaced with _his_ people, so now we have to re-replace _his_ people with our own people.”

“Of course,” Percival says neutrally. He’s not so delicate that he can’t stand hearing Grindelwald’s name or have any sort of discussion involving the man, but the topic does make his spine tingle and his head twinge.

Tina has a look on her face like she wants to say something she isn’t sure she ought to. Queenie similarly looks like she bursting at the seams with juicy information.

Percival sighs. “Out with it then, Goldsteins.”

“Abasi may have said something about Picquery saying something about hoping to have you back when the new recruits arrive,” Tina spills.

“Like a fresh start!” Queenie chips in.

“And I was thinking,” the other continues, “that I could talk you up in a way to the newbies.”

Percival raises an eyebrow and takes a careful sip of water.

“All good things,” Queenie assures him. “Stuff that would help them communicate with you without knowing exactly why.”

“Like how if they don’t speak to you face-to-face, you won’t listen to them, because you value respect and forwardness,” says Tina.

It’s a clever solution, mostly because it’s invariably true and something all of the senior staff are aware of.

“You don’t like raising your voice,” says Queenie, “so they better hush and pay attention when you’re speaking.”

Since he can’t hear himself, Percival tends to speak quieter than what is considered a “normal volume.” He can’t seem to find that mid-range and Percival would rather poke his own eyes out than shout like an idiot in front of, well, _anyone_.

“This is all good and well,” he tells them, “but what about the egg that will inevitably become an occamy that lives in my coat pocket?”

Tina furrows her brow and puts on a stern scowl; she _stares_.

“Mr. Graves doesn’t answer personal questions,” Queenie says seriously.

“That’s your impression of me?” he asks Tina, who is still scowling impressively. He looks back at Queenie when the elder Goldstein fails to answer. Queenie is _also_ scowling and furrowing her brow. Flatly, he says, “Uncanny.”

The sisters burst into giggles.

“Will you come back to work, boss?” Tina asks when she recovers. “Please?”

 

\- - -

 

“I think the choice is out of my hands at this point,” Percival tells Mathilda on Tuesday. “If I don’t go back to work, I’ll never hear the end of it from the women in my life.”

Percival takes a moment to appreciate the fact that all of his friends—yes, _friends_ , and when did that happen?—are strong-willed and fiercely independent women. Percival takes another moment to appreciate how _okay_ he is with that.

 

\- - -

 

The occamy egg hatches on the same morning an owl lands on his window box carrying a thick parcel tied with twine. Percival lets the bird in and is flipping through the sheaf of paper it brought him when his pocket begins to vibrate against his thigh. The papers, coincidentally, are crammed with handwritten notes on caring for occamys, from the moment they hatch and onwards.

 _Just in time_ , Percival thinks, cupping the cracking egg in both hands and watching in wonderment as the tip of a beak begins to poke through. The tiny creature inside chips away at the shell and from through the created hole, Percival can see a pair of enormous bronze eyes. Their gazes meet and the chick’s pupils blow out into huge black holes. The tiny thing cheeps—a silent opening and closing of that miniature beak to him—and presses its little face through the gap in the shell.

Percival’s heart melts.


	2. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something about the man’s accent and definitely the way he can’t help ducking his chin to avoid consistent eye contact renders him unintelligible to Percival. This results in Percival staring rather dumbly at Scamander’s mouth even after the magizoologist has stopped speaking. Percival furrows his brow; this is an unexpected challenge.

_Percival wakes up to the sound of splintering wood. He is instantly wide awake and reaching for his wand on his bedside table, rolling off his mattress into a crouch on the floor as he does so. There is an intruder in his apartment._

_Whoever they are, he can’t imagine they intended to break through his front door so loudly, meaning they must not have been prepared for the amount of warding he placed on it._

_Quiet footsteps approach his bedroom door. Percival tenses, readies, and_ listens _. The knob turns slowly, barely making a noise, and then the door swings open… Percival rises and shoots off an Expelliarmus_ _simultaneously. The intruder deflects easily and Percival fires another and follows it with a stinging hex and uses his empty left hand to send the door slamming shut. As expected, the intruder blocks the spells, but is unprepared for the door flying into him. Percival doesn’t pause to watch; he’s running on adrenaline and gut instinct now. He casts Confundo, Stupefy, and Incarcerous in rapid succession. Somehow, despite reeling from the unexpected physical blow, the intruder manages to wave away each spell. And then he steps forward and enters the moonlight streaming in through the window._

_Percival’s blood runs cold._

_Gellert Grindelwald grins an oily, snake-like grin and takes advantage of Percival’s shock. He presses forward, using Percival’s pause to start shooting off spell after spell after spell. The first one strikes Percival’s left shoulder and his entire arm goes numb and limp. Gasping, Percival jumps into action, taking the defensive and deflecting as many spells as he can. Grindelwald is steadily approaching, putting his entire body into each curse, and soon Percival is backed against the wall. Reduced to one hand, it won’t be long until he is no longer able to keep up._

_A curse slips past his shields and lashes across his face; Percival’s ears ring and something hot slides down the sides of his jaw. Blood, he knows it can only be blood. And now that one shot has broken through, the rest follow easily and Percival loses focus on everything._

_The next thing he knows, he sitting slumped against the wall and the ghostly form of Grindelwald is crouching before him. The tip of a wand is pressed to his temple and Grindelwald’s slick mouth is moving, but all Percival can hear is the blood pumping in his ears and a keening ring. And then his head is splitting apart and Percival is_ screaming…

 

His throat is hot with pain so he must be really screaming as he jolts into wakefulness. He snaps his jaw shut and stares at the wall, chest heaving as he gasps for air and tries to slow his racing heart. From the corner of his eye, he sees Daphne lift her head from the pillow beside his and blink her wide eyes worriedly at him.

He falls back onto his own pillow and turns his head to watch as Daphne uncoils herself and simultaneously stretches her pin-feathery wings and tiny legs. The early-morning light is seeping in through the curtains and Daphne wiggles to fit herself in the column of warmth. She cheeps at him—a sound he has been assured by both Goldstein sisters is utterly adorable—and scoots forward to bump her little beak against his cheek. Percival uses the tip of his index finger to gently rub the underside of her chin. Her eyes slide shut in contentment.

Percival glances at the clock. Half past six. He may as well get up; he planned to sleep for another half hour, but there is no point now. Sighing, he sits up and drops his feet over the side of the bed. The floorboards are cold, so Percival summons his slippers from the foot of his closet and pushes his feet in.

Daphne ventures from her pillow to his, slithering and using her unsteady feet to crest the hilly folds in the fabric, wings wobbling in an effort to balance. Percival watches fondly; she’s only two weeks old, scarcely twelve inches long, and she has the intrepidness of the wholly innocent. He scoops her up and cradles her one-handedly against his chest as he stands and summons his robe. When the garment settles over his shoulders, Percival puts Daphne in one of the pockets and slides his arms into the sleeves.

In his kitchen, he waves for the coffee start and gestures a couple slices of bread into the toaster. He goes to the window box, brimming with gaily colored flowers and buzzing with insects, and deftly catches several bugs in a bubble of air. It took a few false starts and failed attempts to work out the best way to feed Daphne. She’s much too small to eat mice and rats and not nearly steady enough to hunt for bugs on her own—though she does manage to snatch up the occasional beetle or house centipede that finds its way inside. Attractive flowers (concealed with enchantments to hide their unseasonable blooming) and bubble charms have proven to be the most efficient method.

Percival floats the bubble of bugs above his pocket and watches Daphne make enthusiastic lunges for her breakfast. Her claws poke through the fabric where she’s gripping it to anchor herself and, as a result, Percival has recently become highly adept at simple mending charms.

Breakfast stretches into a leisurely affair. With the extra half hour to work with, Percival takes his time enjoying his meal—meager though it is, because he’s not sure he can stomach much else right now—and helps himself to a second cup of coffee. Daphne squirms from his pocket to the table and searches out another sunbeam to coil up in. Percival rests his cheek on his fist and watches her while he chews on the last of his toast. She’s not particularly pretty at the moment, but then what newborn creature is? Her plumage is still scruffy, half hidden in pin casings that she occasionally scratches at with her toes and beak. Her wings are flightless and, according to Scamander’s notes, will be for another week. Due to the protective and hyper-vigilant nature of occamy mothers, the chicks can afford to take their time developing their wings.

Looking at Daphne, Percival finds he’s okay with being that over-protective parent.

He allows himself a slightly longer shower than usual and pauses in front of his mirror to debate covering up the new streaks of gray in his hair. He ultimately decides to not bother, because one glamour in his hair means another for the bags under his eyes and the sallow tone of his skin. For all that he has recovered from his time in captivity, he hasn’t managed even two consecutive nights of proper sleep.

He dresses carefully in his best slacks and shirt, his favorite tie and a new set of plain silver collar pins, his jacket is crisply ironed and his suspenders run flat against his body. He casts Impervius on his freshly shined shoes, tucks Daphne into a slightly Extended inside pocket in his coat, and grabs his cane on his way out the door. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob and scoops Daphne into his palm. He holds her up to eye level and she stares placidly back.

Tina and Queenie have kindly—if not _gleefully_ —volunteered their free time to help Percival teach Daphne how to be an effective and efficient ‘hearing-ear occamy.’ The little thing seems to understand the gist of it. When draped over his shoulders like a scarf, she unfailingly nudges his left or right shoulder depending on which side a sound is coming from. When both sisters called for Percival at once, Daphne was confused only initially but quickly settled for tapping both shoulders in succession accordingly.

However, Daphne has only made short trips out of the apartment and always hidden in a pocket, away from no-maj eyes. It will be interesting and potentially disastrous to see how she does in the hustle and bustle of the Woolworth Building.

She doesn’t seem particularly fussed to be leaving home drastically earlier than usual, though. She just blinks happily at Percival and reaches out to affectionately touch her beak to the tip of his nose. Percival smiles fondly and returns her to his pocket. He has a jar of mealworms stashed in his other pocket and Tina assured him just yesterday that there is a suitable teapot on the bookshelf in his office in case Daphne needs to be tucked away.

The only thing holding Percival back now is himself. He heaves a deep, fortifying breath and opens his door.

 

\- - -

 

The Woolworth Building is bigger than Percival remembers it being—or perhaps he has spent too much time cooped up in his apartment. He finds himself feeling somewhat agoraphobic as he makes his way to the grand staircase, grip white-knuckled on the handle of his cane. He keeps his chin up, though, and his eyes forward and does his utmost to appear calm and confident.

He ignores the reactions he is receiving, but they are impossible not to notice. Witches and wizards and even the goblins and house elves are pausing mid-step to watch his passage. Some cast their gazes away with guilt. Some remain carefully neutral. Some give him a polite nod. Some, he is dismayed to find, narrow their eyes suspiciously.

Halfway up the stairs, his knee begins to throb fiercely, but he grits his teeth and breathes through it. The last thing he wants is to stop and take a break in the middle of the atrium.

Daphne worms her way out of her interior pocket and climbs the lining of his coat with her stubby legs until she has draped herself over his neck, just under his collar. Her pinfeathers prickle his skin, but he finds that he likes the constant reminder of her presence. He isn’t wholly alone in his soundless world.

Percival has just reached the top of the stairs when he sees a flurry of motion from the corner of his right eye and Daphne nudges his right collarbone. He looks over and sees Tina hurrying towards him, mouth forming his name.

“Sir, welcome back,” she says. “I was hoping to catch you down here. I wanted to go over some of the changes in procedure for training new recruits in case you didn’t have time to look them over before you came in today.”

Percival has, in fact, gone over the procedures because Tina made a point of giving him the forms a couple days ago. There’s a little gleam in Tina’s eye, though, and Percival knows precisely what she is doing.

“Walk with me, then, Goldstein,” he says and carries on towards the lift. Tina trots along beside him, rattling off a stream of information he already knows with the earnestness she is known for. With Tina at his side, mouth running, no one tries to stop Percival on his way to Investigations, but they still stare. He keeps his back straight and his shoulders set and his face a careful, indifferent mask until his office door shuts behind him.

Percival drags a hand over his face and sighs heavily. He approaches his desk; wide and made of dark, polished wood and with an in-box towering with files. The office itself looks pristine, if rather Spartan. The books on the shelves are as he left them and all of his personal effects have collected a thin layer of dust. He does notice, however, that the Sneakoscope he kept on the top shelf is missing and that his Foe-Glass has been conspicuously shattered. Both items were heirlooms, once possessed by Gondulphus Graves and passed down son to son for generations.

The chair, dark leather and finely made, waits innocuously behind the desk. Percival can’t bring himself to sit just yet. He feels like he might need to be alone for that.

He turns to face Tina.

“Tell me about the new Junior Aurors.”

“They are the six most promising recent graduates from the training program,” she says promptly, hands clasped behind her back and chin up. She looks like her old self, like the confident young Auror Percival knew before his life went to hell. “Kinney, Speltzer, and Adler are a bit heavy-handed with their Charm-work, but they received excellent marks in Stealth and Tracking. Lesatz and Simmons are the opposite, they were off-the-charts in Charms—Lesatz is especially talented with Memory Charms—but their Tracking needs some work. The last one, Quailfoot, shows a knack for Concealment and Disguise in particular.

“Right now, Abasi has them paired off with more senior Aurors to give them a sense of the space and help boost them up where they need it.”

Percival nods. “We’ll leave them as they are for now.” He clears his throat quietly. “Give me…” He pauses, deliberates, and then continues, “Give me fifteen minutes to settle myself, then I want to speak to Abasi.”

“Yes, sir,” Tina says. She ducks her chin in a quick nod and marches out of the office.

As soon as the door shuts behind her, Percival gets to work. He sets up an alert system that will make his smooth stone paperweight flash a crisp white whenever someone knocks on the office door. Then Percival takes his seat before he can overthink anything— _because_ he _sat here and made a mockery of Percival’s hard work, turned Percival’s life into a sham_ —and charms his most unassuming notepad to take note of who is speaking and what they say. This will serve him quite well in meetings where he can’t follow the conversation with lip-reading alone and where it is normal for him to have a notepad present.

Next, Percival stashes the jar of mealworms in the bottom drawer and locates the promised teapot in his meagre drinks cabinet. He summons it to himself with a casual flick of his wand and stores it next to the mealworms. His drinks cabinet, now that he’s looking at it, appears to be drastically diminished. He’s not one for drinking on the job, but he does receive a fair few bottles of scotch and firewhiskey from colleagues and visitors for varying reasons. (Prohibition is a largely no-maj construct; the wizarding world has greater concerns than alcohol consumption.) Not only is he down a couple of tumblers, but there seems to be an entire decanter missing. Damned if he can remember what was _in_ the decanter, but he knows he had two and now there is one. His silver coffee pot also appears rather tarnished, like it was used liberally and never cleaned properly between brews.

With a pointed gesture, Percival sets the contents of his drinks cabinet to polishing themselves, wicking grime and residue away to be vanished. He takes stock of them as they rearrange themselves on the shelves. One decanter, three tumblers—there should be five—one coffee pot—now sparkling—and one chipped mug. Frowning, Percival casts Reparo and the missing splinter of china shoots across the room from under the bookshelf to reseal itself to the mug. There ought to be three more mugs and saucers to match, but they are conspicuously absent and Percival finds himself more irritated by this than anything else.

He is still stewing over this, even while he begins to look over the files in his in-box, when the paperweight flashes brightly. Percival waves the door open and admits Senior Auror Omar Abasi into his office. Abasi is an impressive man with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. He dresses in rich, muted tones and his collar is always crisply ironed and folded. He cuts an impressive figure and carries himself with the type of confidence that effortlessly garners respect.

Percival stands to greet him and shakes Abasi’s hand over his desk. Abasi’s grip is firm and assured and Percival finds himself wondering once again why Picquery didn’t just replace him with the man. Then Daphne shifts minutely under his collar, still safely hidden from view, and Percival refocuses on the here and now.

He spends the rest of the morning discussing Department and inter-Departmental changes from the last seven months with Abasi. They go over who is still here, who is not, who was secretly in Grindelwald’s pocket, and who was transferred out because they came too close to finding him out. Percival is unsurprised to find that Tina is one of the latter; she always did have a good head on her shoulders.

The conversation wraps up just before noon. Abasi stands and offers his hand once again; Percival shakes it.

“Mr. Graves,” says Abasi and for a moment Percival fears the man is going to apologize or do something equally inane. “I did my best to return your office to its original state while you were on leave. Nothing much was changed, but I did notice some missing artefacts and I found a lot of your personal things stashed in a drawer. I apologize for the state of your heirlooms, I understand they were passed down from your some-odd great-grandfather?”

“Ah, yes,” says Percival, taken slightly aback by Abasi’s genuine care for something that seems so trivial and yet… Means so much. “Thank you, Mr. Abasi. I do appreciate the effort.”

Abasi grins. “It’s good to have you back.” He chuckles. “Personally, I’m thrilled to relinquish the job to you once more. Only a month as Department Head and I felt like I was being run ragged. I don’t know how you do it!”

The man’s good humor proves to be infectious and Percival grants him a good-humored response. He gestures to his drinks cabinet. “Liquid fortification.”

 

\- - -

 

Queenie sweeps into his office around one o’clock with two brown paper bags and a brilliant smile. Percival barely has time to notice the paperweight flashing and look up to the door before Queenie is dropping a bag on his desk and dropping herself in a chair. He pauses his work—reviewing case files, going over inquiries and complaints, mindless paperwork—and raises an eyebrow at Queenie.

The younger Goldstein beams. “Lunch!” she says. “Teenie says you haven’t left your office all day, so I thought I’d bring you something to eat.”

Inside the bag is a warm roast beef sandwich wrapped in paper and the smell that wafts from it makes Percival’s mouth water. Daphne lifts her head from under his collar, likely just as enticed by the scent, and slithers down his sleeve eagerly.

“Thank you, Miss Goldstein,” Percival says. He bats the little occamy’s beak away from the sandwich so he can unwrap it.

“Sure thing, honey,” says Queenie. She opens her own bag and makes herself comfortable at Percival’s desk. After a minute, she flicks her wand at the drinks cabinet and summons a pair of tumblers; she fills them with water and nudges one over to Percival.

“I hope you don’t intend to coddle me like this every day,” he tells her dryly, quirking an eyebrow. “You never used to come to this floor at all.”

His more pressing concern is that people will begin to speak more than they already are about his return. Ideally, he wants to slip back into his old position as seamlessly and with as little fuss as possible and Queenie is a rather eye-catching individual. If she suddenly makes a habit of popping by with lunch and then staying to eat with him, it’ll draw attention where Percival least wants it.

“Hold your horses,” chides Queenie. “I’m only here ‘cause it’s your first day. I’ll only mother-hen you outside the building, okay?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t ‘mother-hen’ me at all,” he tells her tartly.

“Hush you,” Queenie replies, happily nonplussed. “Eat your lunch before Daphne does.”

Percival looks down and finds his occamy’s beak stuffed nearly to her nostrils in roast beef and condiments. He tugs her away and cleans her off with a flicker of his fingers; Daphne sneezes. Percival feeds her a couple mealworms to appease her and then a scrap of beef when she stares at him with enormous, watery eyes.

He sees motion just behind Daphne and glances at his notebook. It has dutifully recorded his chat with Queenie and is currently adding: ‘ _You’re a real sucker for her, ain’t ya, Mr. Graves?_ ’ Percival doesn’t deign to answer her; he keeps his gaze purposely downcast as he picks up the sandwich and takes a generous bite. It’s a delicious sandwich.

 

\- - -

 

The day is wearing to an end. It’s been a long one and Percival is truly exhausted, down to his very core. His eyelids are starting to feel heavy, but office hours don’t technically end for almost another hour and he only has a few more files to look over. Percival idly scratches the pinfeather casings along Daphne’s back with on hand and taps the nib of his quill on the parchment with the other.

He realizes he has read the same line twice when the paperweight flashes; Percival waves the door open. Seraphina Picquery sweeps inside. She narrows her eyes at Percival, lips pursed unhappily, and says, “I’d hoped I wouldn’t find you here.”

Percival sets down his quill and leans back in his chair. His other hand remains on Daphne; a small pile of pin casings has gathered on his desk, but he can feel her body vibrating with pleased coos, so he doesn’t stop.

“Madam President,” he says, coolly. “I can hardly leave work forty-five minutes before the rest of my Department.”

“You can on your first day back from medical leave,” she shoots back immediately. “You look exhausted. Go home, Mr. Graves, and sleep.”

If only it were that easy.

“Yes, Madam President,” he says stiffly. Percival stands and shuffles his remaining papers to the side of his desk, to be seen to tomorrow. Daphne lifts her head and watches with half-lidded eyes, drowsy with contentment. He rubs the top of her head with a gentle fingertip, then scoops her up and deposits her into his inside coat pocket.

Wampus-handled cane in hand, Percival looks up to see Picquery still in his office, still watching him with saddened eyes.

“Percival,” she says and he can almost hear her pitying tone. He wonders if she even tries to hide such things as tone and inflection and vocal expression in his presence now that he can’t hear. “I’m not sending you home to punish you.”

 _You’re just soothing your guilt_ , Percival thinks viciously. He drags a hand over his face.

“I know,” he says. “Goodnight, Madam President.”

He nods curtly and gestures her out of his office before him. Picquery hesitates fractionally, hand twitching upward like she might touch his shoulder, but then she sweeps away down the hall and out of sight. Percival adjusts his grip on his cane and rests his other hand over the pocket Daphne is coiled in.

Percival detours past the bull pen where his Aurors are gathered at their desks, some with heads bowed together and others definitely not working. Auror Edwin Avery is flipping lazily through a sheaf of papers, twirling a quill in his other hand. Tina is leaning her hip on the desk of Senior Auror Leonard Lynch while some wide-eyed Junior listens with rapt attention. Leland Collins, however, appears to be gossiping with a pretty young woman that Percival has never seen before—he assumes she is another new recruit and has not already heard everything Collins has to say. Knowing Collins, he’s probably telling a fanciful reinterpretation of a past venture in an attempt to impress the woman.

Percival continues walking before they notice him hovering. He’s not ready to speak to them as a group.

 

\- - -

 

_“Reducto.”_

_The spell is cast carelessly, like an afterthought. Grindelwald doesn’t even pause to see the damage he has just inflicted. He carries on to the windowsill where Percival has painstakingly chipped away at the warding on the glass over the course of the last three months. The ward was visibly cracking, a hairline fracture stretching like iridescent spider’s silk; a few more weeks of patient work and a hole would have been formed. Grindelwald waves his hand and the ward is mended, strengthened._

_Percival slumps against the wall, hands shaking violently over the bloody mass that was once his right knee. The fabric of his pants is in tatters, littered with blood and slivers of bone and weeping gore._

_Grindelwald clicks his tongue like a disappointed parent and, to Percival, he sounds far away. Then the ghostly man crouches before him and effects a heavy sigh._

_“Why would you do a thing like that, Percy?” Grindelwald asks from across the void. “You have a_ guest _in your home. You wouldn’t want to be a bad host, would you?”_

_Grindelwald rises and kicks Percival’s right foot on his way to the door. Even the slightest jostle wrenches a hoarse scream out of Percival._

 

Percival lurches awake, chest heaving as though he has just run a marathon. He sweeps his sweat-damp hair off his forehead and tugs the blankets off his leg. His right knee is a mess of gnarled scar tissue that no amount of dittany could smooth away. The kneecap underneath had to be entirely regrown after being completely disintegrated, but the same could not be done for the shredded muscle and tissue around it.

A glance at the clock tells Percival is a quarter to three in the morning. He groans. There’s no going back to sleep now and Goldstein will never let him hear the end of it if he goes to work several hours early on his second day back.

Daphne is watching him from her pillow. She chirps at him plaintively and Percival wishes he could hear it. He lays back on the mattress, rolls on his side to face her, and rests his hand on her tiny form. She squirms until she is upside-down and locks her little feet around his fingers; Percival uses his thumb to lightly stroke the velvet softness of her belly. He doesn’t stop until the sun breaches the horizon and pours crimson light through the gap in the curtains. Then he hauls himself out of the bed and stumbles through his morning routine.

Despite his early start, he limps into the Woolworth Building twenty minutes late, leaning heavily on his cane and moving sluggishly. The majority of the looks sent his way are pitying this time around and Percival sets his jaw against them. He is well aware of how miserable he looks, thank you very much.

When he steps onto his Department floor, he finds the bull pen buzzing with activity. A few Aurors pause to _good morning_ him amicably and he nods in acknowledgment. Percival pauses to watch them work. Abasi is appraising a bulletin board pinned with leads and moving pictures; a grid-map of the city has a particular block highlighted in red. He has a Junior Auror next to him and Percival can see his jaw moving as he points to particular items on the board. Goldstein and Auror Goodwin appear to be reviewing case details with another Junior.

Percival can easily pick out the Juniors, each being taken under the wing of an experienced mentor. He watches his Aurors and Senior Aurors lead and teach while working on what looks to be the best way to take down a black market that has set up in lower Queens. Normally, there would only be a pair of Aurors working out a strategy while the rest of the Department minded their own cases. But given the recent lull in criminal activity and the need to train the recruits, they’ve come together beautifully to teach.

Percival turns away and makes for his office, but is stopped when Daphne taps his shoulder. He turns back and finds that Abasi has noticed him and called his name.

“Yes, Abasi?” he asks. He can feel how he is still leaning on his cane despite standing still; his bad knee is throbbing like a fresh injury. He needs to sit down and he needs a strong cup of coffee. When he notices how everyone else in bull pen has stopped working and are watching him with varying levels of subtlety, he feels he needs to add a splash of whiskey to that make that strong coffee a little more potent.

Abasi holds out a packet of papers. “This is the plan of action we have for handling the situation in Queens.”

More paperwork. Abasi needs the signature of the Director of Magical Security to authorize the plans before he can act on them.

Percival takes the packet. “I’ll get these back to you within the hour.”

He retreats at last into his office, the door firmly shut behind him, and slumps gratefully into his chair. He waves a hand at his coffee pot; a scoop of fresh grounds and the appropriate amount of water rush in and begin to brew. In minutes, the warm smell of coffee is filling his office and Percival takes a minute to breathe and enjoy it. Then he straightens his spine and he gets to work.

 

\- - -

 

On Friday, Percival meets with Mathilda for the first time since he returned to work. His exhaustion is bone-deep and he has heavy purple smudges under his eyes. He sits for a while with his head down, focusing intently on Daphne who is curled in his lap and happily dozing. She sleeps a lot, like all babies do; growing and learning is tiring work and little Daphne has a job on top of that. Fortunately, Percival spends a lot of time in his office, bent over paperwork, so she gets plenty of rest between her brief working periods.

He strokes the coiled length of her body, scratches loose pin casings free when he encounters them, until he feels calm and ready to speak.

“Tina tells me that a couple of my Aurors are suspicious of me,” he says, glancing up at Mathilda and then back down at Daphne. “Only two, but still. One of them is a Senior Auror, which puts him a position of influence and if he doubts my loyalty to the MACUSA…” Percival shakes his head. “Apparently, the fact that I got free with only ‘a bit of a limp’ is highly peculiar. This morning, Tina heard them muttering about wanting further proof that I am who I say I am.”

Daphne’s feathers are growing in beautifully; the last traces of downy fluff gave away to pinfeathers and the pinfeathers are nearly gone now. Her wings are filling out, no longer scrappy wedges of pocked skin and looking more like functioning appendages by the day.

“ _Apparently_ ,” Percival says with a growl, finally giving Mathilda his consistent focus, “I have not suffered enough. _They_ failed _me_ and now they think I have not suffered enough? I can’t sleep, I can’t walk, I can’t _hear_ , but none of that matters. I escaped Grindelwald too easily.”

Percival falls back and scrubs his hands through his hair. He looks at Mathilda so she can speak.

“I’ve said before that you’ve made remarkable progress,” she tells him, “but you still carry so much anger. You need to learn to let go of it.”

Percival scowls.

Mathilda raises her eyebrows at him. “Don’t give me that look. It’s wonderful that you have Daphne, she has done wonders for your temperament and your overall well-being. But you still don’t sleep nearly enough and you’re _angry_.”

“Well, I can’t use Dreamless Sleep or else I’ll be taking it every night,” he says snappishly. “And I’d like to see how you feel when you have co-workers looking at you with pity or suspicion everywhere you turn.”

“It’s tough,” says Mathilda. “I know it’s tough, but you can’t let it bring you down, Percival.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?” he asks bitterly.

“There are several things you can do,” she replies placidly. “Learn to cook, exercise, practice dueling— _safely_ —or go to your friends. I know you’re fond of the Goldsteins, they’re your friends, so let them be your friends.” Mathilda leans forward and places soft fingertips on the back of his hand. “If you find something to do, something to keep you moving and active, you will feel so much better. I promise.”

“My knee,” Percival reminds her.

“Active within your capabilities,” she amends. “You’re isolating yourself again and you’re exhausting yourself only mentally. If you can physically exhaust yourself as well, you will find it much easier to sleep through the night. And being well-rested will make everything else so much easier to manage.”

Percival rubs his thumb over Daphne’s tiny, leathery foot. She wraps her toes reflexively around his finger and heaves a sleepy sigh. Percival smiles fondly down at her.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says quietly.

 

\- - -

 

Percival prepares to spend his weekend alone despite Mathilda’s urging. He does take the time to make himself a proper breakfast of eggs with runny yolks on toast and greasy bacon and a crisp glass of orange juice. While he eats, he watches Daphne discover, stalk, and catch a cockroach that slipped in through the cracked-open window in the bathroom. She has grown remarkably in only a week’s time. She is now doubled in length and far steadier on her feet and with her wings. She crunches the insect happily, its squirming legs sticking out the sides of her beak until she tips her head back and swallows the thing down. Percival wrinkles his nose at the sight, but he’s seen and experienced far worse, so it does nothing to his appetite.

Daphne sets about grooming out her new feathers, using beak and talons in equal measure and getting occasionally distracted by the wiggly tip of her tail. Percival uses his remaining bit of toast to mop up the last of the egg yolk on his plate and washes it down with the final swallow of juice. He sends his dish and cutlery to wash themselves in the sink, sets his coffee brewing, and then leans his elbows on the table and… Does nothing.

He has absolutely nothing to do today. Nothing at all. It’s an alien feeling. He has no meeting with Mathilda and no plans to be dragged around the city by Queenie and he’s no longer battling for survival or striving for recovery. There is nothing.

Suddenly, Percival’s life feels bleak. His eyes glaze over and his chin falls heavily into his hand and he feels empty. The coffee finishes brewing and he waves over a cup with half a thought and then stares at it listlessly. He stares until the steam dissipates and the cup turns cold and the color starts to pale as the lingering grounds sink to the bottom. He stares until Daphne climbs up onto the table and nudges her head under the hand that isn’t supporting his chin.

Percival comes back to himself and realizes that his proximity alarms are flashing around him—random objects around the apartment he enchanted the same way he enchanted the paperweight in his office. With a sigh, Percival hauls himself to his feet and waves the cold cup to the sink to clean itself while he answers the door. It’s the Goldstein sisters, he knows this before his hand reaches the knob thanks to his extensive charm-work, and someone else. He hesitates at the presence of a stranger, before physically giving himself a shake and telling himself firmly that if this person is with the Goldsteins, they can’t be so bad.

At first he sees only the sisters—Queenie beaming beatifically and Tina smiling uncertainly. He frowns at them, but steps aside to let them in. His third visitor shuffles in, halfway hidden behind Tina, who appears to tugging him along by the sleeve of his bright blue coat. He is gripping the handle of a battered brown case like a lifeline and appears unsure if he’s allowed to be here. The man is lanky, a bit awkward, and he looks like he would match, if not surpass, Percival’s height if he would only stand up straight. Percival takes stock of his messy auburn hair, wide green eyes, and generous smattering of freckles and concludes that this must be the younger Scamander brother.

Newt Scamander meets his eyes for a flicker of a second before diverting them to the floor. The young man is fidgety and Percival doesn’t know if this is just Scamander’s nature or if Scamander is residually frightened of him. He knows what Grindelwald did to the younger man while wearing his face and doesn’t blame Newt for being nervous.

Percival looks to Tina for an explanation.

Sheepishly, she explains, “Newt arrived yesterday evening. We were on our way out for an early lunch and Queenie suggested we come ‘round to ask if you’d join us.”

Percival tries not to grimace too obviously. “I appreciate the thought, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Tina insists, “we’re inviting you.”

Percival shakes his head. He was rather committed to wasting his weekend away and he isn’t sure he’s ready to properly meet Mr. Scamander. As good for him as it may be to have that closure, he anticipated having some semblance of forewarning before facing the man that unmasked his imposter. With his focus on Tina for the purpose of communication, Percival is only peripherally aware of Scamander in his apartment. The magizoologist seems to have discovered Daphne still lounging on the table and is appropriately enamored of her tininess and beauty.

“I’m sure Mr. Scamander would rather spend his time with you two than with the man whose face caused him such strife,” Percival says, choosing his words rather carefully.

Scamander must say something in response to this, because Tina turns her head to him and says something back. Obviously, Percival doesn’t pick up on what either says. He faces Scamander and finds the man’s cheeks flushing a pale pink. He repeats what he said—or at least Percival imagines that’s what he’s doing when his mouth starts moving again, but Percival is alarmed to discover that he can’t read the other man’s lips.

Something about the man’s accent and definitely the way he can’t help ducking his chin to avoid consistent eye contact renders him unintelligible to Percival. This results in Percival staring rather dumbly at Scamander’s mouth even after the magizoologist has stopped speaking. Percival furrows his brow; this is an unexpected challenge.

“One moment,” he says curtly and sweeps out of the room. In his sitting room, he collects an old, pocket-sized notepad that he rarely uses these days and casts a now very familiar charm over it. He returns to the kitchen where his three guests are cooing over Daphne, who is clearly delighted.

“My apologies,” he says, gaining their attention. “If I could ask you to repeat yourself one more time, Mr. Scamander.”

“Oh,” says Scamander before stumbling through his words for a third time.

The notepad reads: _‘I merely said that I wouldn’t mind at all if you joined us.’_

The final decision is effectively left to Percival and he spends a minute in contemplation. On the one hand, he _was_ rather set on stewing in his apartment all day—but he can do that tomorrow, he supposes. On the other hand, the heavier one, Queenie Goldstein is a force to be reckoned with _and_ Mathilda will have his head when she hears that he ignored her request that he to go out with friends. Because Mathilda will hear about it and from Percival himself, because even he isn’t capable of the level of self-sabotage required to withhold information from his own therapist.

Percival heaves a world-weary sigh and goes to his bedroom to put on a tie and vest. He puts an Undetectable Extension Charm on the little front pocket of his six-button waistcoat—one of his last remaining garments to be made Daphne-friendly—before shrugging into it and doing up the buttons.

Daphne titters soundlessly for him as he approaches. Percival has begun to recognize the noises she makes by the way she moves her beak and body: gaping in long intervals when she shrieks; wriggling her entire self and opening and closing her mouth rapidly when she chitters in excitement; stretching herself forward and clicking in succession when she wants to be scooped up. Percival has picked up all of her cues as easily as she has picked up his.

She coils herself around his wrist and latches onto his shirtsleeve with her talons the moment he reaches for her. Her warm weight and consistent pressure over his pulse is more soothing than Percival can ever put into words. She doesn’t move when he puts on his coat and ruffles her feathers the wrong way, she just squirms and fidgets until they lay flat again.

As he turns, he catches sight of Scamander. There’s an unreserved warmth in the magizoologist’s eye, an uptick in the corner of his mouth that speaks of fondness and… Something Percival can’t place. The look, however, is gone in an instant once Scamander sees that Percival is looking. The redhead’s mouth tightens into a polite smile and his chin dips to his chest. Percival almost changes his mind right then and there and tells his guests to leave without him. Scamander is so clearly uncomfortable in his presence.

Queenie’s hand on his arm draws his attention away.

“Get your cane, honey,” she reprimands. “You can’t keep hobbling around like you are. You’ll damage your knee more.”

Percival tucks his wand into a discreet inner pocket in his vest and wandlessly summons his cane to him. Admittedly, it is a relief to have it; he has a terrible habit of biting his cheek and bearing the discomfort in his own home even though he knows he shouldn’t. He just can’t help the small part of him that is _tired_ of being in any way dependent on a walking aid.

Queenie beams at him and loops her arm through his, leading him boldly to the door. Tina and Scamander follow haplessly along and Percival feels, not for the first time, that the world is merely Queenie Goldstein’s playground. Her talents are certainly wasted on waitressing.

Percival lives on the third floor and the lift in his building is finicky at best. With his knee, it takes nearly twice as long to descend three staircases and he has never before been so acutely aware of his pace. Tina and Scamander are chattering away, putting on an excellent show of not noticing, though Percival can’t see how they wouldn’t. Queenie matches him step for step and keeps her hand looped around his elbow, scritching at a spot of remaining pinfeathers on Daphne’s side absently. Percival’s jaw is clenched tight by the time they make it out the front door and down the stoop. That feeling of bleakness is creeping back into him.

Tina directs them to a quaint little restaurant in a wizarding block of the city where a smiling hostess invites them to seat themselves and assures they’ll be seen to by a server shortly. They find a table near the front that seats one person on each side and Percival finds himself flanked by the sisters and face-to-face with Scamander. That’s well enough, he supposes; he can read Tina and Queenie easily from the side or from three-fourths view. Scamander is the one he needs to observe and learn to understand. Percival will likely be carrying about his little notepad for the rest of his life for clarity’s sake, but it would be nice to not be wholly dependent on it.

Daphne climbs clumsily up his sleeve and wraps herself cozily around his neck. She’s just long enough to make a double loop, ending with her tail and head both resting on his left shoulder. Percival can’t imagine her growing to fifteen feet like Scamander’s notes say she will.

Scamander then says something, which prompts Percival to pull out his notepad and prop it up on the napkin dispenser in front of him. Obligingly, without being asked, Scamander repeats himself.

_‘How old is she?’_

Percival can’t help a small smile. “Three weeks and a day.”

This makes Scamander beam in response, likely endeared by Percival’s prompt and precise knowledge of his occamy’s age.

 _‘She’s gorgeous,’_ he says. _‘Clearly in excellent condition and very fond of you.’_

Percival isn’t sure what he would do without her, but he’s not about to say as much and especially not in his current company. He’s glad his Occlumency has nearly returned to its usual standard, he doesn’t want Queenie skimming stray thoughts like this that flitter across the forefront of his mind.

“Your notes are to thank,” says Percival. “And you, of course. I appreciate you forwarding them to me.”

Scamander, for some unfathomable reason, quails under the display of gratitude. He trips over a brush off that doesn’t write a full sentence on the notepad, but then ends with, _‘I’m just happy to help.’_

 _‘Oh,’_ appears on the notepad, quoted as _Queenie_. Percival looks to her as she continues, “I don’t think we introduced you two properly!”

“Oh,” Percival catches Scamander saying, clearly just realizing as well. Percival had noticed the lack of formal introduction, but hadn’t thought much of it. Tina made a casual sort of introduction when she explained why they were in his apartment and Percival could only do one head-on conversation at a time. Still, propriety and all that. He extends a hand to Scamander over the table; Scamander slips his slimmer hand into Percival’s.

“Percival Graves,” he says, “Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Percival already knows Scamander’s name and occupation, so he watches the man’s mouth to study how he forms the words with his accent.

“Newt Scamander. Magizoologist.” He follows this with a slightly crooked smile that Percival finds ridiculously charming. They release each other’s hands and Percival’s feels cold now that it is empty.

“I hear you’ve just published a book,” he says, genuinely interested in hearing more about it. However, the waitress chooses that moment to approach with menus and a cluster of glasses hovering alongside her. The glasses and menus set themselves in front of each person around the table and waitress pulls her wand from the front pouch of her apron to fill the cups with water.

Percival watches from the corner of his eye as her welcome spiel scribbles across his notepad. He is more focused on Scamander’s long, elegant fingers as he picks up his glass for a short drink and then as he tips up his paper menu. Scamander freezes and for a second Percival thinks his staring has been noticed, but then he realizes the waitress is the one looking at _him_.

“Pardon?” he asks, looking up at her.

“No animals, sir,” she tells him, hesitant now that she realizes that something may be different about him. “It’s, um, against the rules.”

“My apologies,” he says coolly, even though he feels like there is a pit of ice in his stomach. He’s become horribly dependent on his little companion. “She’s too young to be left alone, would stowing her in a pocket be acceptable?”

A touch flustered, but visibly grateful that he is being calm and cooperative, the waitress nods. “That’s fine. Thank you, sir.”

He nods politely. Then he coaxes Daphne off his shoulders and guides her into his Extended pocket. She goes easily; he feels her squirm for a minute, getting comfortable, and then she settles into stillness.

Percival reads along quietly as the waitress goes on to rattle off the specials, but he isn’t particularly hungry. He just ate his first proper breakfast in a long time and it is keeping him content. Percival gives the menu only a cursory look over and sets it aside; he’s here because he knows he ought to socialize more. Also, despite being sprung on him unexpectedly, now that he has met Scamander, he is curious to know more.

The rest of lunch goes smoothly. They eat and talk and the Goldstein sisters immediately back Percival up when he starts pressing Scamander— _Newt, please call me Newt_ —about his book. Once Newt gets started, however, he delights in telling them all about his adventures and his creatures. His awkwardness melts away and is replaced with attractive surety, his eyes sparkling with intelligence whenever he manages to hold visual contact for more than half a second.

Percival spends much of the conversation looking between the notepad and Newt’s mouth, matching the words to the shapes his lips make. He has always been a fast learner, that’s part of what propelled him so quickly to the top of his class at both Ilvermorny and in Auror training, and by the time an hour is up, he can comfortably pick up the gist of what Newt is saying.

After lunch, they pick up a meandering pace back to Percival’s apartment. The Goldsteins and Newt are welcome to make their own plans for the rest of the day, but Percival’s knee is smarting fiercely and he feels that his social quota has been generously filled. A socially busy day after a paperwork laden work week has left him feeling drained. He feels ready for a nap and then maybe spending the rest of the afternoon in his favorite chair with a cup of coffee and a novel.

Percival ambles along behind Tina and Newt, who are chattering and teasing each other like old friends. It’s nice to see Tina with someone who brings out such levity in her; Percival is more accustomed to her ‘work persona’ and her persistent sisterly side that has been present in her since his rescue. Queenie clasps Newt’s elbow on his other side, a skip in her step as she giggles and draws eyes with her brightness as she passes by. Every now and then, one of them will glance back to check on him. He would be bothered, but they do it so casually and always with a smile so he lets it slide. They genuinely mean well and he would rather not push away the closest friends he’s had since childhood.

The giggling trio follows Percival up to his apartment despite his insistence that he’s fine, just tired, go on and have a nice day. But the Goldsteins are nosy and persistent and they virtually adopted him within a week of his recovery—he’s stuck with them and he has resigned himself to that fate. Newt appears to have been similarly taken in by the sisters, but he is obviously quite content to let them spin him around the city as they please, taking everything in with clear-eyed wonder and serenity.

Percival thanks them for their company and for inviting him out and farewells them at his open door. He shuffles straight for his bedroom where he sheds his vest and tie and undos the top three buttons of his shirt. He kicks off his shoes and changes out his socks for a thicker, cozier pair. Daphne is wrapped around his wrist once again, latched onto his sleeve with her head tucked into his loosely curled hand.

In his tired distraction, Percival doesn’t immediately pick up on the second presence his wards are pinging on. When he does, Percival tightens his grip on his cane, ready to use it like a physical weapon if he must, and calls his wand to his hand as he creeps out of his bedroom. He rounds the corner into the living room, bringing his wand up as he goes, and finds a startled Newt Scamander loitering by his couch. Newt holds up his hands and meets Percival’s eyes; he stays very still.

Percival’s hand begins to tremble violently and he drops his arm quickly, shoving his wand into his pocket. He clenches his shaking hand into a tight fist and takes a hasty step away from the other man. Daphne scurries up his arm to his shoulder and presses herself along the underside of his jaw, body buzzing with the distressed noises she makes. Percival’s heart is racing with wasted adrenalin, shot through his system at the brief fear of an intruder, and zapping the last of his energy when it goes.

He turns away from Newt while he catches his breath, reaching up to cup a hand over Daphne, who is pressing herself firmly against his pulse. After a minute, he regains himself and turns back around. Newt is hunched in on himself; he seems to favor his right side in particular, keeping his chin tucked to his right shoulder and glancing at Percival with a trace of anxiety. When he sees that he has Percival’s attention, he speaks up.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Graves,” he says earnestly and Percival manages to understand him without use of the notepad; he summons it from where he left it in his bedroom regardless. Newt bites his lip and doesn’t continue until Percival has the notepad in hand. “You conversed so easily at lunch, I forgot you couldn’t hear.”

Percival smiles slightly at the other man. “Why are you here, Newt? Wouldn’t you rather be with Tina?”

“I’ll see her later,” says the magizoologist. “I wanted to speak to you personally.”

Percival is honestly baffled by this, but Newt seems to be quite serious. He gestures for Newt to take a seat and takes half a step towards the kitchen. “Could I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Thank you, Mr. Graves, but nothing for me.”

Percival takes a seat on the other end of the couch and angles himself towards Newt.

“You don’t have to stop calling me Percival just because you startled me,” he tells the redhead, causing Newt to flush a delicate pink.

“Yes, right,” he says. He’s making a valiant effort to keep his face towards Percival, though his eyes stay somewhere around Percival’s chin, probably on Daphne. The effort is nevertheless appreciated and goes a long way for helping Percival understand him.

“What would you like to speak to me about?” he asks after a pause. “I would have thought you’d prefer to not be alone with me, considering…”

Newt furrows his brows, genuinely confused. “Because of what Grindelwald did?”

“While wearing my face,” Percival says, unable to hold in his lingering bitterness. It must show on his face or in his voice, because Newt’s expression turns sympathetic. Somehow, the sympathy is less insufferable on the young magizoologist, perhaps because Newt has proven himself to be nothing but genuine since they met. (Perhaps because Percival can’t help finding everything about Newt utterly endearing.)

“Yes, well, towards the end Grindelwald didn’t try very hard to stay in character,” says Newt. “He showed his hand rather dramatically when he interrogated me. Besides, it’s impossible to be afraid of a man who spends so much time doting on a baby occamy.” Newt grins adoringly at Daphne. “She is truly gorgeous.”

“I am terribly fond of her,” Percival understates, teasing the little feathers of Daphne’s tail.

“To answer your question, though… I suppose I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Admittedly, I didn’t think much of what must have become of you after Grindelwald was exposed. It wasn’t until I received an owl from Tina saying she had found you that I fully understood that Grindelwald had been _impersonating_ an existing person.” Newt shrugs sheepishly. “Then later I got another owl asking about service animals and _another_ requesting a copy of my notes on occamys and I just… Recovery is a many-layered thing. It’s emotional as well as physical and I know that… I know that sometimes it’s hard to get up in the mornings when everything feels so…” Newt casts about for a word.

Percival supplies one. “Bleak.”

Their eyes meet for a long moment and Percival can see in those green depths just how acutely Newt understands.

“Bleak,” the magizoologist repeats. “Yes. Now I haven’t endured precisely what you did, but I have been in some tricky situations. So, if you find that you need someone to talk to, someone who isn’t Tina or who can’t read your mind and know what you aren’t ready to say… You can always come to me, Percival.” His eyes flicker down to Daphne and his lips quirk upward. “Or even if you don’t want to talk at all. I have a nest of young occamys, should you want to schedule a playdate of sorts.”

There is a glowing ember in Percival’s chest, snug between his lungs and his heart, and it grows ever warmer the longer he looks at Newt. At this young man he has known for scarcely a day and who is so terribly awkward with people and yet so completely charming. He’s a far cry from Percival’s usual type—male or female, Percival was always drawn to the bold, outspoken sort—but there is a quiet power and a strength that he senses in Newt, hidden just below the surface.

Percival can’t help but think that this man, this wonderful man, is going to undo him. And he really wouldn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie makes it look like occamys don't have feet, but every other source says they do?? Also, the freshly hatched occamy in the movie has full plumage and Daphne is covered in pinfeathers... Please excuse the discrepancies in the different presentations of a magical, made-up beast...
> 
> And wow! Thanks so much for all the spectacular feedback! I'm blown away! You guys are wonderful! Thank you!!! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations!


	3. Reduce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is the bull and this is the china shop—everything shatters into a million, silent pieces.

On Tuesday, Auror Collins makes a terrible mistake. Junior Auror Verity Quailfoot is near to tears because Collins, who was meant to be teaching her, left her to deal with an artifact that he ought to have _known_ was dangerous to touch. As soon as Percival receives the mouse-memo that Quailfoot is in the infirmary with blistered hands and that Collins is to blame, he is out of his office and on a warpath. After Tina told him of Collins’s gossiping, Percival has been acutely aware of it. He has on several occasions caught the Auror tracing the shapes of nasty accusations in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in the bull pen, into the ears of anyone who will listen.

Collins is a few steps shy of insubordination. He follows every order Percival issues, but he does it with a sour expression and narrowed eyes. Percival has been waiting for a reason to tear into him.

In the infirmary, he finds Quailfoot in worse condition than he expects. Her hands are swollen to the size of baseball mitts and covered in weeping pustules. To her credit, she is keeping a brave face and if not for the telling puffiness around her eyes, Percival would not have guessed that she is in a serious amount of pain.

Collins, however, does not even have the decency to look properly ashamed of himself. He loiters near the door while a Healer tends to Quailfoot’s hands, his own shoved into the pockets of his trousers while he waits. When Percival enters the room, he straightens up lazily and opens his mouth to start what will probably be a very convincing spiel on how this is _not his fault_.

Percival gives him a sharp glare and he desists. He goes to Quailfoot first.

“Tell me what happened,” he requests calmly.

“The black-market raid in Queens,” she starts, swallows, he sees her throat working for a second before she continues. “Auror Collins and I were doing a final sweep to make sure everything was clear. I found a magical object in one of the last remaining stalls, so I called Auror Collins over because I wasn’t sure what it was. It didn’t look like anything I’d seen before, but it was giving off some real strange energy. Col—Auror Collins said it was fine and told me to pick it up… I’m so sorry, Director Graves, sir. I should have levitated it—”

Percival stops her there with a gentle hand. “There is no need to apologize,” he tells her soothingly. “You have done nothing wrong here. Collins, on the other hand.” Percival turns on his heels and bears down on the Auror in question. “What is wrong with you? You’re meant to be _teaching_ Quailfoot, you’re supposed to be her _mentor._  Why in Morgana’s name would you tell her to just _pick up_ an unknown magical artifact? You know better than that. You know the procedure for handling things like this. You’re damned _lucky_ she wasn’t _KILLED_!”

“Okay, but Graves—” Collins tries to interject. Percival doesn’t let him.

“Perhaps if you spent less time skulking around the office, questioning my loyalty, and actually _did your job_ you would remember how to be a decent Auror. You’ve been lax, Collins. Lazy and frankly embarrassing. I have a half a mind to fire you on the spot, but we’re a little short on personnel right now so you’ll have to settle for a demotion.”

Collins gapes. “Now hang on! That’s not fair!”

“Oh, but it _is_ fair for a _Junior Auror_ to be injured on the job while you could have easily prevented it? It _is_ fair for you to go unpunished for shirking your duties? Tell me, Collins, what do _you_ think is fair?”

Collins glowers. There’s a black kind of fury in his eyes and Percival has a split second of premonition in which he _knows_ the man is about to say something unforgivable.

“You know, I almost miss Grindelwald sometimes. He was a better Director than you are.”

Percival doesn’t need to hear to know that the room has gone silent. He can feel the stillness in the air, the mounting tension and shock from the other occupants—which includes not only Quailfoot and the Healer, but several other medi-witches and -wizards who work in the ward as well.

“Would you like to say that again?” Percival asks icily.

Collins, amazingly, rises to the challenge.

“Grindelwald was a better Director than you,” he snarls. “And you know, I’m still not so sure you wasn’t in on the whole thing. You got off pretty easy, didn’t you, Graves?”

“Did I?” Percival growls. “Would you like to know how _easy_ I got off? I could tell you, but I don’t think it will have the right impact. Instead, how about I lock you away in a room and yank the memories from your head as I pleased? How about I parade around with your face and use your wand to shatter your bones? How about I destroy your essential senses and let you starve? Does that sound _easy_ , Collins?”

Cowed, Collins says nothing.

“Clear your desk,” Percival orders. “You’re done.”

When Collins stays rooted to the spot, Percival barks, “ _Now_!”

Collins jumps and scrambles out of the infirmary. Percival glowers after him, then forcibly calms himself with a long, deep breath. He turns back around to see Quailfoot and the Healer—and everyone else in the ward—staring with wide eyes. With his attention on them, the Healers scurry back to what they were doing and Percival is certain that everyone in the damn building will know about what just happened by lunchtime.

Quailfoot’s hands are half the size they were minutes before and the pustules are no longer oozing. The woman herself appears to be in less pain and her teary red eyes are now wide with awe. Percival takes some comfort in realizing that he apparently impressed her, rather than frightened her.

“Quailfoot, come to my office when you’re finished here,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” she replies promptly.

Once back in his office, Percival sits heavily at his desk and buries his face in his hands for a minute. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper like that and especially not in front of an audience. But Collins had _pushed_ him, had prodded every bruise and pressed every button and… And now Percival has spilled details of his time in captivity to an entire _ward._ It’s only a matter of _minutes_ before everyone on this floor knows.

Percival tries to busy himself by drawing up the necessary documents to officialize Collins’s removal, but he finds his hand is trembling. He tries to massage the muscles in his palm, to soothe the invisible injury, but the shaking persists.

Daphne, who is just beginning to outgrow her usual hiding spot under his collar, wriggles out from under his lapel and winds herself down his arm. She now spans the entire length of his forearm and she rests her head on the back of his hand, clicking her beak at him worriedly. Having an occamy coiled about his right arm does nothing to help him write up the report nor does it ease the shaking, but Percival appreciates her effort.

The stone paperweight flashes and Percival waves the door open. Quailfoot enters cautiously and he realizes that she is the first person he has invited into his space since his return. Queenie and Picquery barging in on his first day certainly don’t count. Quailfoot’s trepidation is understandable, but unwarranted.

“Have a seat,” he says calmly. He lets the door stay wide open in case it helps Quailfoot feel more comfortable being here. She lowers herself gently into the available visitor’s seat and stares at him with wide eyes. It takes only a moment for her to notice Daphne, unsubtle beast that she is, and her eyebrows jump to her hairline.

“Is that an occamy?” she asks. She seems thrilled primarily and then confused secondarily when she realizes that it’s odd for the Director to be carrying a beast. “Why do you have an occamy?”

“Well spotted,” he compliments. “Her name is Daphne.” He blandly ignores the follow up question and proceeds with his own. “Miss Quailfoot, how are your hands?”

Quailfoot blinks, then starts and holds up her hands. They have been restored to their normal size and are only the slightest bit pink. “All better, sir.”

“Good. Now, tell me, was this the first time Collins has been careless with you?”

“Um,” Quailfoot bites her lip briefly, face scrunching as she thinks, deliberates.

“If it helps,” Percival adds, “he has already been fired, so you don’t have to worry about protecting his job or reputation, if that’s what is holding you back.”

The young woman’s shoulders sag and she tells Percival frankly, “This was the first time I got hurt, sir. Mostly he was just a jerk and he said a lot of… A lot of rude things, sir, about you.”

Percival grimaces. “I’m aware,” he replies dryly. “I hope his behavior hasn’t discouraged you from continuing as an Auror.”

“Well, honestly, it has,” she admits. “But since he’s gone, I’m willing to stick around and give it another go.”

“I'm glad to hear that. I suggest talking to Goldstein, I believe the two of you will be well-suited.”

Quailfoot smiles. “Thank you, sir.” She rises, makes to turn, but then stops and indicates Daphne once more. “Really, sir. Why do you have an occamy?”

Percival quirks an eyebrow and pointedly says nothing in response. After she leaves, he finds that the distraction has chased away the trembling and he gets to work on the dismissal papers.

 

\- - -

 

By the end of the day, Percival is wound so tightly he thinks he might be one step away from snapping. News has obviously spread and the pitying looks have returned with vigor. Those who previously were suspicious of him have now joined the ranks of those who feel sorry for him, but with added guilt for not realizing he’d been replaced. Percival suspects it is Daphne’s now noticeable presence that deters the bolder of his colleagues from approaching him with condolences or apologies or what-have-you. His already extensive appreciation for her doubles.

Tina discreetly informs him that Newt is staying in her apartment and that he can Apparate to their front door quite easily. Percival gives her no answer other than that a curt nod, but inside he could weep with relief. Bless the intuitiveness of the Goldsteins.

Percival lets himself into the apartment, bypassing the locked door with ease, and does a quick sweeping search for Newt’s battered brown suitcase. He finds it tucked out of the way in a corner of the living room and strides over to it. He kneels in front of it and pauses. For all that he has heard about Newt’s menagerie, he hasn’t yet seen it in person. He wonders if there is a protocol he ought to follow, but then he notices his hand is shaking again and he decides to bite the proverbial bullet.

The latches open easily under his fingers and the lid swings up with scarcely a touch. Percival considers calling down, but doubts it would do much good when he can’t hear any potential response. He lowers himself in, finding a ladder waiting, and climbs down into a tiny, cluttered shack. The ceiling is vaulted, making the space far taller than it is wide, and the shelving is packed with items nearly all the way up. The space smells sweet and earthy with an underlining tang of copper—Percival finds a multitude of herbs hanging in bunches and a slab of raw, pink meat laid out on a chopping block.

Daphne stretches off his shoulder as far as she can manage, eyes fixed on a buzzing bright blue insect with wings at the top of its head: a billywig. Percival tugs her gently back, unwilling to take any chances with his little companion _or_ with the occupants of Newt’s case.

As Percival walks to the door, mindful of the half-shut drawers and various accoutrement hanging from the walls, he can’t help noticing a rather full jar labelled _‘Acromantula venom_ , _’_ which is highly illegal in America. He presses his lips into a thin line and makes a mental note to mention this to Newt when he finds him.

Of course, any further thought is swept right out of his mind when he steps out of the shack and finds himself in an entirely different world. Percival stands frozen, jaw falling open in awe at the sheer size of the universe Newt has built for his creatures. Habitats are sectioned off with seemingly normal sheets of tarp, painted with detailed horizons, but which actually span impossibly _further_. The charm-work is unlike anything Percival has ever seen; the level of skill and power required to create such a stable and functional environment… It’s breathtaking.

Percival pivots slowly, absorbing everything and becoming more and more awestruck with every new sight. A rolling desert, a grassy plain, a red-rocked canyon, a bamboo forest, coniferous trees, an immense block of ocean… And high above: stars and clouds and countless dazzling, flickering creatures. Over there is a wash of golden sunlight and here is a soothing moonlit glow. And everywhere, a buzz of activity.

There is so much magic in the air, the kind that lingers on magical creatures and leaves an earthy residue, Percival can feel it on his skin. It’s almost tangible and he can very nearly taste it, the petrichor of natural magical ability in its rawest, purest form. He watches an immense dung beetle build a humble tower; spies a pair of graphorns rollicking in a sandy habitat; pauses to observe a herd of mooncalves sway happily under a waxing moon.

He can’t seem to catch sight of Newt and decides to loiter in this little ‘entryway’ area; Newt will turn up eventually. He’d rather not wander amongst beasts that probably use vocal cues and besides, he’s rather content where he is. Percival watches the beetles and the graphorns and feels much calmer. It is hard to be stressed and anxious when he has just been transported to a different universe. MACUSA and the Department are worlds away now.

Daphne is periscoping off his shoulder, feet latched onto Percival’s shirt collar and her half-spread wings buffeting the back of his head as she works to keep her balance. Percival wonders if she can sense the presence of other occamys, he can’t imagine they’re very far and he knows there are six of them. He tries to imagine Daphne meeting others of her species and finds himself worrying that she won’t be able to get along with them. Being raised alone by a human, Daphne has become thoroughly domesticated and not very well socialized. She has never met another creature that wasn’t an insect she could immediately eat.

Daphne suddenly lurches leftward and Percival has to quickly bring his hands up to steady her. He sees Newt approaching before he can begin to wonder about her excitement and offers the magizoologist a faint smile.

“Hello, Newt,” he says.

Newt smiles widely and waves back, mouth making the shape of a cheerful hello. Percival doesn’t have his notepad on him, he realizes belatedly; this will have to be a crash-course in British lip-reading.

“I thought I’d take you up on that offer for a playdate,” he says. Daphne settles down only slightly, draping herself heavily over the top of Percival’s head and vibrating sporadically. Percival can only imagine what sort of noise she’s making, the brat.

Newt laughs and gestures for Percival to follow him. The magizoologist’s little green companion pops up from his breast pocket to investigate the noise and immediately begins to wave his twig-like arms at the sight of Daphne. Percival sees Newt reach up to take the bowtruckle in hand and, from the way his head and jaw move, speak to Pickett soothingly.

As soon as the occamy nest comes within view, Daphne’s fussing doubles and seconds later she is boosting herself off Percival’s shoulder and launching herself towards it. Six sleek indigo heads appear in the wide mouth of the bamboo nest and begin to jaw and jostle excitedly. Daphne lands gracelessly in their midst and shrinks herself to match their smaller size. Percival quickens his steps, but Newt’s soft hand on his elbow pulls him back to a walk.

Percival fastens his eyes to Newt’s mouth and waits for an explanation.

“She’s in no danger,” the redhead assures him. “They’re a friendly lot.”

Percival makes a face. “You say that of all your creatures.”

“And I mean it of all my creatures,” Newt insists, indignance in his expression. Percival shakes his head and goes back to watching Daphne. His occamy is lost in a tangle with the others, but they seem to be playing—at least, they aren’t obviously fighting. There’s a lot of wing-flapping and rolling and rearing up to lunge at each other. There’s no blood and no single occamy being ganged up on, so Percival makes himself relax. If the expert on magical beasts isn’t worried, then Percival shouldn’t be either.

Hands in his pockets, Percival watches the occamys play for a while. He loses track of time and of himself watching the shimmer of iridescent feathers and the glint of bright bronze eyes. Daphne is nearly indistinguishable from Newt’s brood and he can’t always separate her from the bunch, but he knows that if he called, she would return to him in a heartbeat.

A touch on his arm draws his attention away from the occamys.

“Is there anything else?” Newt asks. The magizoologist proves once again to be far more perceptive than he is given credit for.

Percival deliberates and then sighs.

“I’ve had a miserable day,” he admits, “and I’m sure I’m going to have a miserable week because of it.”

“Why is that?”

Percival presses his mouth into a hard line.

“You don’t have to say,” Newt says quickly. “It’s not my place, I apologize.”

“Oh, don’t apologize,” Percival says, a touch harsher than he intends. It’s startling how quickly his temper can flare back up; Mathilda will have plenty to say about it when he sees her next. He sighs raggedly and drags a hand over his face.

Newt purses his lips, looks at Percival with assessing eyes, and then visibly comes to a decision. He tips his head in a _come along_ sort of way and strides off back the way they came. He leaves Percival with no choice but to follow after. When Newt comes to a halt, he is standing at the edge of an empty habitat filled with tall yellow grass and sparse, scrubby trees.

“What’s this?” Percival asks. He tries to gentle his tone, but he has no way of measuring his success.

“This is where my—” Percival doesn’t catch the name of the creature “—lived. Before I came back here to New York, I was in Namibia where I and some local wizards were able to integrate her into a herd. The—” E-something, that’s all Percival can gather “—is highly revered by African wizards and witches and I’m certain the reserve in Namibia will take excellent care of her. Before I left, it seemed as though one of the males had taken an interest in her and I’ve asked that my friend—” Percival assumes the unfamiliar shapes of Newt’s mouth add up to a name “—keep in touch should they mate and reproduce.”

Percival waves his hand to cut Newt off. “Sorry, I’m not entirely following. What sort of creature used to live here?”

“Oh, right.” The high points of Newt’s cheeks take on a pinkish hue. He repeats the word that Percival can only gather starts with E. Percival shakes his head; he still doesn’t understand.

“Never mind,” says Newt. “The point is this habitat is empty and it’s about time I took it down. Normally, I’d just use magic, but I find that a bit of physical work is an excellent way to release frustration.”

He jogs off and comes back with a pair of shovels.

Percival removes his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. He spends the next hour and a half churning the soil to loosen boulders and digging out the roots of the trees. Newt works tirelessly alongside him, occasionally using his wand to levitate away the rocks and refigure the trees into bamboo or pines for the other habitats. By the end of it, Percival is drenched with sweat and his knee is threatening to give in with pain. Every motion he makes causes his muscles to burn and there is a fiery aching in his back. His shirt sticks to his skin and his hair is thoroughly disheveled and his palms are a mess of brand new blisters. His breathing is labored and harsh and… Percival has not felt so viscerally _alive_ in a long time.

Newt pulls the shovel from his hand and coaxes him to sit in a conjured chair. A cold glass of water is pressed to his palm and Percival drinks gladly. He has barely set down the glass when a heavy, warm weight settles over his shoulders; Daphne coils herself about his shoulders, back to her usual two-foot length. She tuts and coos—jittery movements of her beak—and rubs her head along his jaw like a cat.

Newt reappears with two steaming bowls of stew— _Courtesy of Queenie,_ he says, reminding Percival of the world beyond the case. He summons a low, collapsible table and another chair and stares at Percival stubbornly until the man relents and begins to eat. After the first bite, it’s hardly a chore to empty the bowl. He’s scraping the last dredges onto his spoon when he realizes that Newt is staring at him.

“What?” he asks gruffly.

Newt blithely ignores the roughness and smiles placidly.

“I think I could dedicate an entire chapter to Daphne,” he says. “She’s simply marvelous. Occamys aren’t typically domesticated, they’re too defensive and quick to scare, but here’s your Daphne and she’s as docile as kneazle. Did you know that she sometimes doesn’t make a sound when she, er, addresses you?”

Percival’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“Yes,” Newt enthuses. “It’s fascinating, the way she interacts with you. She clearly knows you cannot hear and when she is, well, _speaking directly to you_ , I suppose is how you’d put it, she only makes the motions of vocalization. It’s incredible.”

Percival looks down at Daphne, who draped limply over his shoulders like a feathery scarf, her nose crammed against the waistband of his pants at his hip.

“Incredible isn’t the word I would use to describe her right now,” he says dryly. He glances up and sees that Newt is laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners and mouth pulled wide. Percival gets a pang in his chest when he realizes that he will never know what Newt’s laughter sounds like.

 

\- - -

 

Percival does something he has never done before: he schedules a meeting with Mathilda before their usual session.

Halfway through Wednesday, Percival can take no more and he clocks out at lunchtime. Everyone watches him go, eyes tracking his passage and mouths moving soundlessly. They know, now, some semblance of the torment he endured during his absence and many seem to think it grants them permission to offer him condolences. They think it gives them an excuse to so obviously pity him. Percival watches them whisper and mutter to each other, making clear attempts to keep out of his earshot and not knowing that their efforts are wasted.

The silence that surrounds him has never seemed so oppressive.

Mathilda doesn’t look remotely surprised when Percival enters her office and takes his usual seat. Still, she waits with patient understanding while he struggles to explain the crux of his frustration and nods sympathetically when he finally boils it down to the loss of his hearing.

“I wondered when this would happen,” she tells him. “We’ve never properly discussed your disability after our first week together. You seemed to have come to terms with it, but only in the sense of what it does not allow you to do. I worried you hadn’t properly accepted being deaf.”

“Yes, well, apparently, you were right to worry,” Percival says sourly.

“Percival,” Mathilda says. He doesn’t let her say anything more.

“I met Newt Scamander,” he tells her. He keeps his focus on Daphne coiled comfortably in his lap, preventing Mathilda from interrupting hm. He also doesn’t think he’ll be able to say everything he needs to say if he looks anywhere else. “He’s… He isn’t what I expected. I’m not certain what I _was_ expecting, but it wasn’t this.” Percival runs a hand over Daphne’s wings; she shifts and snuggles her head under his palm. “I keep expecting him to shy away from me. He was attacked by Grindelwald wearing my face, sentenced to death before that, but. He has been unfailingly kind to me and I find myself… Wanting to spend more time with him.”

Homosexuality isn’t as taboo in the wizarding world as it is in no-maj society and Percival has never been shy about his preferences. But it has never been easy for Percival to discuss his feelings; admitting to his affections feels uncomfortably like an admission of weakness and dependency. Percival loathes being _dependent_ on anything.

“Yesterday,” he says, dragging the words out of himself, “I realized… I realized that I don’t know what his voice sounds like and I never will.”

The world is silent and oppressive and bleak. Percival can’t recall what Tina’s voice sounds like, or Queenie’s, or Seraphina’s. He is beginning to forget what his own voice sounds like. He doesn’t know what Daphne sounds like or any other of Newt’s creatures. Bit by bit, he is going to forget the sound of singing and of music, of shoes on a dancefloor, of automobiles puttering by, of horses drawing carriages. The noisy depth of his _life_ has been flattened into two dimensions and, even after all these noisy years, he is going to forget what it was like _Before_.

Percival’s eyes prickle and he is appalled to find himself on the verge of tears. He scrubs his hands over his face. His session with Mathilda is barely halfway through, but he can’t stand to be here a minute longer. He mutters a hasty excuse and leaves, holding Daphne with one hand while the other clenches on the handle of his cane as he goes. Once he is out the door, he turns sharply on his heel and Disapparates to the alley behind his apartment building.

His muscles are still sore from yesterday’s workout and his legs burn in protest as he ascends the stairs as quickly as he can manage. He locks his door behind himself, adds another layer of spell-work just because, and—with a manic huff of laughter—throws out a muffling charm.

He plops Daphne onto the couch as he staggers to the kitchen. He grabs a glass, takes it to the sink, but his hand is shaking so violently that the glass slips from his grasp and shatters on the hardwood floor. Percival stares at it. Then he summons another glass and lets it drop.

He watches it make contact with the floor, watches the glass buckle and burst outward, watches the glistening fragments spread and scatter. His mind stalls when there is no audio feedback to match the visual.

Inanely, he summons another glass and then another and when those run out he moves onto the dishes, the bowls, pitchers, vases, mugs, saucers. Anything breakable. He is the bull and this is the china shop—everything shatters into a million, silent pieces.

By the time he runs out of things to break, Percival can feel his heart hammering in his chest and he can feel his pulse throbbing in his wasted ears.

He just can’t _hear_ it.

 

\- - -

 

Percival spends the rest of the afternoon sitting on the end of his couch, staring dully at the mess he has made of his home. Daphne is coiled on the other end, watching him with doleful eyes. Eventually, he slips into a restless sleep filled with hazy dreams of jeering, soundless faces and mismatched eyes. The four walls of his old bedroom are rising up around him and slowly drawing closer together until _they press in on him from all sides and squeeze his body around his gasping lungs. There are no doors or windows, no furniture, nothing, just tall stark walls and constricting pressure and a silent abyss that puts an entirely different kind of pressure on his inner ears. His head is throbbing._

Something warm and solid nudges under his hands in his lap.

_Percival tries to twist around, to seek out some kind of escape, but he only succeeds in wrenching the knee that Grindelwald disintegrated. He cries out and he feels the soundwaves tear at his throat. The wall behind him gives and he sprawls gracelessly onto his back and his old bedroom is as it once was. Despite the sudden influx of space, Percival still struggles to breathe._

The solid thing in his lap leans up against his chest and a cool beak bumps his jaw.

_A pale face leers down at him, eyes crazed, mouth sneering…_

A sharp pain yanks Percival back to wakefulness. Daphne is staring at him, beak to nose; she tugs on his nostril again and looks to the door. Percival casts his eyes around his apartment, a touch disoriented, and takes in the carpet of broken china and the random points of flashing light. Weak sunlight is trickling in through the curtains, pushing bizarre shadows across the floor and putting the mess in harsh relief. It takes him a minute to make sense of what he is seeing.

Someone is at the door and his magic tells him it is Newt Scamander.

Percival gets up and staggers on legs that have long gone numb. He casts about for his wand or his cane, but doesn’t see either in his immediate vicinity. He limps to the door and opens it manually; he doesn’t consider what he must look like until he sees Newt’s eyes go wide. Percival is still in yesterday’s clothes, now sleep-rumbled and slightly twisted around his form, and there must be a considerable amount of stubble on his face.

Percival steps aside to let Newt in.

“What brings you here?” he asks.

“Tina contacted me,” Newt tells him. “She was worried when you didn’t show up for work…” Newt trails off, taking in the disastrous state of Percival’s apartment. “Merlin’s beard. What happened?”

Percival checks the time. A quarter past ten. Damn it. He wonders if it is even worth it to go in to the office today; with Tuesday’s drama and his leaving early yesterday, being so drastically late today will only add more fuel to the fire. _Damn it_. He knew this week would be miserable.

Newt wraps a hand around his forearm and pulls his attention back. “Percival,” he says. “What happened here?”

Another pang of longing strikes Percival’s chest. Absurdly, his eyes begin to prickle for the second time in so many days and Percival has to turn hastily away before Newt can notice. He stalls, unsure of where to go, just knows that he has to be away from this charming young man. He sees Daphne still sitting on the couch, watching him with huge worried eyes, and hurries over to her. She launches herself as soon as he is within range and Percival staggers under the abrupt addition of her weight in his arms. She twists in his hold, squirming and fussing and battering her wings as she frets over him.

This is what breaks him. Daphne’s animal innocence and frantic concern tips him over the edge and Percival collapses onto the couch. He lands heavily and hunches himself over his occamy, curling his arms tightly around her coiled form while the first harsh sob bursts out of him. He vaguely registers movement in his peripheral vision, knows it must be Newt, but can spare no thought for the other man. A throb slowly builds in his forehead and the wracking breaths are excruciating on his lungs, but Daphne is warm and constant and this outburst was a long time coming.

Percival feels a buzz of magic on his skin. He looks up and scrubs his eyes clear and watches Newt, wand in hand, repair the damage done to the kitchen. He hiccups, air catching in his throat, and he ducks his head to press his forehead against the graceful arch of Daphne’s neck. He stays like that until he can breathe steadily without the occasional spasm of sorrow and until his eyes are itching with dryness instead of wetness. He stays curled over Daphne until a blue-coated form crouches before him and a tentative hand covers his on the occamy’s side.

He lifts his head, meets Newt’s eyes, and watches his mouth.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” says Newt and there is heart-wrenching sympathy and kindness in this man and Percival’s chest is _aching_. “But _please_.” Percival can see the stress Newt puts on that word, on _please,_ in the way his expression momentarily tightens. “Please do not lock yourself away. You have friends who are worried about you, who want nothing more than to help you. Please let them help you.” Newt’s other hand lifts and Percival thinks he might be reaching up to touch his cheek, but Newt is held back by his own nature. “Let me help you.”

Percival shakes his head. He is unsalvageable. He is useless as an Auror and shameful as a person. He is, apparently, as cold and deplorable as a dark wizard. All he has are starched shirts and shaking hands.

“Why would you want to help me?” he asks wretchedly. Why would someone so bright and so beautiful want to entrench himself in the mire that is Percival Graves?

“Because you’re a good man,” Newt answers, so plainly and so honestly that Percival can only drop his head into his hand and weep. Newt stays kneeling before him, holding his other hand over Daphne’s warm body and leaning forward to gently press his forehead to Percival’s.

Percival doesn’t know how long they stay like this, but Newt never wavers and the aching in his chest begins to slowly—very slowly—subside.

 

\- - -

 

Percival wakes up on the couch. A blanket is spread over his form and Daphne is coiled loosely on his chest, her little nose puffing warm breaths across his neck. The window above him is filled with dusky half-light and he think he must have slept away the entire day. He wonders if Newt is still here or if he left after Percival fell asleep. He wouldn’t blame the magizoologist if he did.

He turns his head. He can see into the kitchen from his place on the couch and he sees that it is empty. Newt isn’t here and that hurts more than he thought it would. He’s about to close his eyes and try to sleep a little more when he catches sight of a familiar brown case sitting unobtrusively against the wall. The clinch in his heart lets out at the sight and Percival relaxes back into the cushions. Newt is still here; he’s just checking on his creatures.

Percival dozes for a while, lingering on the cusp of sleep and yet maintaining awareness of where he is. Time passes and eventually hunger pulls him back to the surface. Percival uses one arm to hug Daphne to his chest while he sits up and the other to pull away the blanket. Daphne winds herself around the entirety of his arm, but does not fully wake; her beak slides down and nestles into the front of his shirt.

Standing with his weight on his good leg, Percival at last bothers to summon his cane to him and makes his way to the kitchen. Newt did a beautiful job repairing the dishes and glassware, he even fixed up the resultant scars on the hardwood floor. Percival also finds a large brown paper bag that gives off a heavenly scent. He opens the bag and discovers it filled with occamy-shaped Danishes and crispy golden nifflers with blueberry eyes. Amused, Percival selects a glazed occamy smothered with blackberry jam. He summons a second pastry—this one a niffler—and floats it along behind him as he goes to the suitcase and pops the lid.

Inside, he finds Newt sat on the ground in a grassy African habitat with the head of an immense catlike creature in his lap. As Percival watches, Newt strokes a tender finger from the creature’s broad nose up between its eyes and to the top of its head. The thing’s head alone is larger than Newt’s torso and its massive paws are capped with claws the size of a man’s fingers. And yet, the beast is half-lidded and limp with contentedness under Newt’s gentle ministrations. Percival is so captivated by the composure and quiet confidence of this incredible man that it takes him a few minutes to recognize the beast in question.

“Mercy Lewis, Newt,” he says, somehow more exasperated than alarmed. “I know for a fact that there are no permits in this country that allow you to keep a _nundu_.”

The beast’s eyes pop open, but it doesn’t move from Newt’s lap. Newt’s stroking hand doesn’t falter as he looks over at Percival and grins broadly. The man doesn’t appear the least bit guilty.

“If you really didn’t want me to have her,” he says pertly, “you wouldn’t make it so easy for me to get her through customs.”

Percival presses his lips into a thin, stern line. Newt glances at the pastries and jumps onto the new topic before Percival can make a case about the nundu.

“Oh good, you found them.”

Percival narrows his eyes, but allows the diversion to take.

“Yes,” he says, floating the blueberry niffler over to Newt, who plucks it out of the air happily. “Did you go out and buy them?”

“Queenie brought them over about an hour ago,” answer Newt. “She’s very sweet on the man who bakes them and I daresay he’s rather smitten with her as well.”

“Hm.” Percival takes another large bite out of the Danish and eyes the nundu uncomfortably. Newt chuckles and carefully extracts himself from the creature. Once free, he ambles over and leads Percival out of the habitat with a passing touch to his hand. They end up in front of the occamy nest; Percival nudges Daphne awake and guides her into the bamboo. Body angled towards Newt, he lets go of his cane and instead rests his hand on the rim of nest. He watches Daphne cozy up with her friends for a minute before looking at the magizoologist. They stand comfortably side by side while they eat their pastries, watching the occamys play lazily.

“I was thinking,” says Newt eventually, his fingers absently find Percival’s and he traces feather-light lines from knuckle to fingertip. Percival swallows and tries to focus on the words Newt is speaking rather than the soft curve of his cupid’s bow. “You ought to start dueling again. Tina told me you were once top in your class and I think if you got back into practice, you might find things easier… I don’t want to make assumptions, but it does seem like you might not be coping very well and…” Newt trails off, rubs an awkward hand over the back of his neck and ducks his head briefly. His brings his chin back up a second later and says, “In a formal setting, dueling is done face-to-face, so you wouldn’t have to worry about missing audio cues. We could work back up to more complicated, less structured duels and develop tricks to make up for your hearing.”

Percival stares, mouth gaping and eyebrows raised.

Flustered, Newt continues, “There’s no reason you shouldn’t still be able to fight and I can’t imagine you enjoy being stuck behind your desk all day. And even if Picquery doesn’t let you back into the field, at least you can still fight and defend yourself and exercise is excellent for stress-relief—”

Percival cups a hand around Newt’s jaw, halting him mid-sentence and making him flush delicately. He strokes a thumb over the high curve of Newt’s cheekbone and the magizoologist leans into the touch. Percival’s heart _pounds_ in his chest.

“I still don’t understand why you want to help me,” he admits. He is enamored of this man and so bewildered as to _why_ Newt would give him a minute of his time. He wants to understand, he’s so _desperate_ to understand—it’s a physical ache in his chest—but at the same time… He’s afraid to look too closely, to ask too many questions, lest he chase away the only bright point in his life.

Newt smiles sweetly. He brings his own hand up to cover Percival’s and then slides it down to wrap warm, loose fingers around his wrist.

“I told you earlier,” Newt tells him, “you’re a good man.” His eyes take on a mischievous glimmer and he adds, “It certainly helps that you’re very attractive.”

Percival squeezes his eyes shut, expression pinching, he _keens_ —though he doesn’t know it, he can’t hear it and he’s too busy drowning in Newt’s affection. Percival leans in and presses his forehead to Newt’s; his other hand leaves the bamboo nest and finds the graceful curve of Newt’s neck.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

Their faces are close enough that he feels Newt’s breath on his lips and chin, feels the ghostly brush of Newt’s mouth uttering an unheard reply. Then Newt’s free hand is grasping his waist and Newt’s lips are pressing against his and everything melts away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Newt says "Of course you do" before he kisses Percival.
> 
> Have I spent all my time working on this fic instead of the manuscript I'm trying to publish For Real? Yes. Yes, I have. Which, coincidentally, is why this fic has grown an additional chapter -- all my creative energy is being dumped into Gramander and I'm okay with that??
> 
> Also: I'm on tumblr, if any of you hooligans are interested. It's mostly garbage, but it's fandom garbage interspersed with pictures of animals and nature, so... If you like, I'm the-velocityraptor.


	4. Restore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival wants to ask Newt to stay, to stay and never leave and be with him forever. But he’s afraid to ruin the perfection of this moment, the heavenly afterglow of their first time, so he says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that would not be written - probably because it's the last - I wrote and deleted entire sections trying to write this! But, at last, here it is: the conclusion of Release the Controls. Thank you to everyone who kudo'd and commented! You're feedback means the world to me! I hope you enjoy the last chapter!

Percival doesn’t fully understand how out of shape he is until he spends a great portion of his weekend dueling in the recently excavated erumpent habitat. Newt is an inexhaustible sparring partner, body made lean and wiry by years of handling creatures from all corners of the Earth. He cuts a frankly gorgeous figure in his trousers and waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and his hair a mess of soft curls. His every movement is sure and steady, every flick of his wrist and wave of his arm confident and controlled. His spell-work is impeccable and his smile is quick and brilliant and sweet. He flips between shaping little encouragements and catching Percival when he stumbles by Apparating to his side and pressing a tiny kiss to his cheek like that’s all he intended to do.

When they aren’t dueling—when Newt drags him away from the makeshift arena—Percival is being led by the hand through the suitcase to meet its every occupant. The animals, for the most part, regard him with wariness and only approach when they see the way Newt is pressed against his side. The occamys will always be Percival’s favorite—Daphne has made him biased—but he finds Dougal’s presence to be quite peaceful and watching the bowtruckles bustle about in their tree is soothing in a way Percival can’t quite explain.

Newt takes in Percival the same way he imagines the man would take in a creature and it’s impossible to be insulted by the implication when Newt is looking at him with those wide green eyes. The magizoologist makes him sit between matches, handing him cups of water and bits of food, and whips up soothing salves for Percival’s aching muscles and peppers Percival’s lips and jaw with sweet little kisses. Percival has never felt so looked after and he never thought he would find it so enjoyable.

By Monday, his entire body is sore, but pleasantly so, and he is the most well-rested he has been since he was captured. He walks into the Woolworth Building at eight o’clock sharp with his chin up and for the first time in a long time, his confidence is not faked. Daphne, reading this boost in his mood, has decided that _four feet_ is now her length of choice and drapes herself like a long scarf looped once around his neck. She keeps her head up now, rather than tucked under his collar, and looks around with rapt attention.

He attracts as much attention as usual. He left early halfway through last week following a rather dramatic firing and did not return—people are understandably curious. As Percival ascends the central stair, he doesn’t bother trying to lessen his limp or the way he leans heavily on his cane. He is entirely too sore to pretend to be stronger than he is.

Percival lets himself stop halfway up the stairs to catch his breath.

When he gets to his Department, he pauses in the bull pen to check on his Aurors. Where there was once thirty, Investigations is now down to twelve. Percival needs his twelve to be as strong as they can possibly be.

Tina and Quailfoot greet him enthusiastically and Percival is warmed to see them working together. He is confident that Tina will be an excellent mentor. The other Juniors appear to be settled in nicely and Percival takes note of their early arrival. He appreciates punctuality and he appreciates the apparent dedication. Senior Auror Leonard Lynch, who previously shared Collins’s opinion, glances at Percival briefly and then ducks his head with shame.

 _Good_ , Percival thinks, letting some of his anger trickle away. Lynch ought to hold onto that guilt, ought to remember it, and he ought to _learn_ from it.

He carries on to his office and sits with great relief. Daphne transitions to his lap where she can coil up and rest her head in the crook of his elbow while he works. Percival strokes her face, beak to between her eyes, a couple times before he gets started on the extensive amount of paperwork waiting in his inbox. He sends nearly ten completed papers scurrying off in mouse-form before his door swings open and Seraphina Picquery marches in.

“Madam President,” he greets her coolly.

“Percival,” she says. _Ah_ , he thinks, _this is a social call_. Seraphina seats herself, crosses one leg over the over, and wrests her wrists primly across her knees. “How was your extended weekend?”

There’s a twitch in her brow that belies how annoyed she is about his unexpected absence, but for the most part she seems to be primarily worried. She is here as his friend first.

“It was fine,” he says.

“You look well rested,” she remarks.

“I am,” he tells her honestly. “The most I’ve been in a long time.”

Seraphina smiles softly. “I’m glad to hear it.” She has more to say, Percival can see it in her face, so he waits her out. It doesn’t take more than a minute before she says, “If you need more time off, you need only ask.”

“I know,” he assures her, “but I’m fine, Seraphina. I had a rough start, but now I’m fine.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, searching his face with intense scrutiny, and apparently being pleased with what she sees. She stands and reaches out to place her hand on the back of his.

“If there is anything I can do for you,” she says, with utmost sincerity, “please do not hesitate to ask.” She purses her lips briefly and then adds, “I know I can’t ask you to forgive me, but if there is any way that I can… That I can help…”

She’s struggling. Seraphina Picquery didn’t get to be where she is by regularly humbling herself and metaphorically baring her throat to the people who work beneath her. Percival takes pity on her.

“I will let you know,” he says. He links their fingers together and squeezes briefly. “Thank you, Phee.”

The use of her old nickname—a relic from their short-lived relationship—makes her smile fondly. She squeezes back and lets go. She steps away from his desk and Percival can see the presidential mantle resettle on her shoulders.

“It’s good to have you back, Mr. Graves,” she says. “As well-rested as you look, you’re still on desk duty until I say otherwise.”

“I understand, Madam President.”

She tucks her chin in a curt nod, but her left eye flutters in a hint of a wink before she turns and sweeps out of the office. Percival chuckles, smiling faintly to himself while he gets back to work on his mountain of paperwork. Coming into this job, he knew he would have a significant amount of paper to deal with, but with his absence the amount has reached horrific proportions.

At noon, his paperweight flashes and Percival gestures the door open to reveal Queenie, carrying two brown paper bags. She beams as she enters and passes over one of the bags before settling herself in the visitor’s chair.

“This is familiar,” Percival murmurs. Daphne perks up in his lap and tries to plunge her head into the lunch bag. Percival sighs fondly and pushes her away, though he does feed her several bits of roast beef after he unwraps the sandwich. She is undoubtedly a spoiled creature.

“Well, you worked so hard this weekend, I thought I’d bring you a special treat,” says Queenie. She gives him a sly little smile and adds with cheek, “Newt’s a real cutie, ain’t he, Mr. Graves.”

Percival raises an eyebrow at her and Queenie laughs happily.

“And how is your baker, Miss Goldstein?”

Queenie immediately blushes bright pink and busies herself with her own lunch.

 

\- - -

 

Newt is waiting on the stoop of Percival’s building when he steps out from the alleyway. The magizoologist is perched on the bottom step, huddled in his coat and a thick scarf with his case over his knees. The brisk late-winter wind has brought a chapped redness to the high points of his cheeks and his fingers are bruised by the cold around the edges of his case. When Percival approaches, Newt pouts at him and holds out a palm filled with no-maj coins.

“A man in a suit gave me this as he walked by,” says Newt, utterly confused.

Percival chuckles. “He must have thought you were homeless.”

Newt’s jaw drops, aghast. “Do I really look that dreadful?” He looks down at himself, at his thoroughly battered case and well-worn coat. The chill does not grant favors to anyone, but it seems to be particularly hard on Newt.

“You don’t look dreadful at all,” Percival assures him, smiling fondly.

Once inside Percival’s apartment and then down into the case, Newt uses a simple cleaning charm to make the coins shine like new. He holds them out to Percival.

“Give these to the niffler and you’ll be his best friend for the rest of time,” he says. The magizoologist has been working bit by bit to build a bond between Percival and his menagerie. The implications behind this—that Percival is someone important to Newt, someone significant enough to warrant creating a friendship with the creatures in the case—make Percival’s heart catch in his chest.

The niffler is thrilled by the gift, gathering up the coins in his paws to inspect them and then arranging them in his nest. Newt and Percival watch with arms pressed together as the niffler picks up a quarter, flips it around a few times, and then replaces it as it was. They watch for a minute more and then Newt slips his hand in Percival’s and leads him to the practice space.

The tall grass of the old erumpent habitat has been replaced with a hard-packed dirt floor, but the tarp walls still emulate the African savannah. The scenery is peaceful and Percival finds it pleasant, soothing, so he asked that Newt leave it as is. When they step into the space, Newt flicks his wand and draws up a little table and two chairs. They sit and they have a light meal and Newt regales Percival with stories of his adventures.

“We don’t have to duel every day,” Newt tells him when they finish eating, taking one of Percival’s hands in both of his. “Be slow. Take care of yourself.”

“I know,” Percival says honestly, “but this helps me sleep at night.”

Knowing that his dueling is improving, inching his way back to his old prowess, and the physical exhaustion that comes with practice means that he sleeps deeply and dreamlessly. Percival has slept through the night for the past three nights and that alone has done him wonders.

“Well, come on, then.” Newt draws Percival to his feet and shoos Daphne off his shoulders. The occamy squawks—a gape and a ruffle of her feathers—and scuttles off to find her friends. Newt pulls Percival into the center of the practice space and they take their usual positions.

The fact that most spells are cast silently in a typical duel makes their head-on sparring more of a simple exercise, something to warm them up and wear them out with repetition. There is a lull in the effortless block and parry, cast and shield, and it eases away the tension that chews on Percival’s shoulders. Over the course of the spar, Newt inches closer and closer, ducking and blocking until he suddenly straightens up and is nearly nose-to-nose with Percival. He grins and pecks the other man on the cheek, then tries to duck away again.

Percival sneaks an arm around Newt’s slender waist and traps the redhead against his chest before he can escape. He tucks his wand away so he can bring his free hand up to cradle the back of Newt’s head while he brings their mouths together. Newt melts into him, arms winding around Percival’s neck and bodies pressed flush together. Percival tugs on his lower lip, traces his tongue over it, and the kiss deepens.

A tickling sensation dances down the length of Percival’s spine and he breaks the kiss with a gasp. Newt bounces away from him, mouth open in a crowing laugh and his wand still clutched in hand. The tickling continues until Percival waves a hand to counter the jinx. He narrows his eyes at Newt, Newt who has just used a schoolyard spell on him in the middle of making out, and then reacts in kind. Newt must not have expected retaliation, because the jinx finds it mark and Newt’s legs begin to dance. The magizoologist’s face twists into such shock as he jigs that Percival can’t help laughing at his hapless companion.

Newt struggles to counteract the jinx, but he’s too unbalanced to perform it properly. Percival eventually takes pity.

The evening continues like this. They dance and parry and trade silly hexes they learned unofficially at school. By the end, both men are flushed and grinning and panting happily. Percival feels his eyelids growing heavy and his heart feels fit to burst. He and Newt collapse into the chairs at the edge of the space and drink down a glass of water each.

“Perhaps we can start working on more advanced tactics,” Newt suggests. “Next time, of course.”

“Of course,” Percival echoes. He reaches across the table and trails a fingertip along the handsome line of Newt’s jaw. Newt smiles sweetly at him.

 

\- - -

 

Percival is at his desk, the same place he has been all week long, working steadily through his never-ending mountain of paperwork. Order forms, case reviews, complaints, requisitions. Picquery stepped in earlier with a thick folder full of résumés and stressed with a single look just how important it is to start bringing in more Aurors. Amongst the résumés were personnel files on Aurors from other cities, all fully trained and skilled individuals willing to transfer to New York city. Percival is sorting them into piles of _Yes_ , _Maybe_ , and _No_ , taking the time to thoroughly read and deliberate over each one before he places it. So far, the _Maybe_ pile is the biggest pile.

He has just started on the file of an Auror in Chicago when his paperweight flashes on top of the minimal _Yes_ pile. He waves the door open and Junior Auror Quailfoot hurries in. She looks harried and apologetic and starts speaking before Percival can ask what the matter is.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Auror Goldstein sent me to ask for your assistance in the case we’re on.”

Percival frowns. “You and Goldstein are following a lead on the Hastings case in Midtown.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“And why can’t you request assistance from a Senior Auror?”

Quailfoot fidgets. “Um, Auror Goldstein said we needed you specifically.”

Percival’s eyebrow twitches and he sees Quailfoot gulp in response.

“Did she say why?” he asks, staying perfectly calm. Outwardly. He isn’t cleared to work in the field yet, Tina knows this—hell, the entire Department knows this. Whatever it is that Tina wants his help on better be damned important, because Percival cannot afford to jeopardize his job. He has worked too hard to get back to where he is just to toss it out now.

“The location we went to investigate,” says Quailfoot. “It’s an abandoned building, but there are alarms in place and we can’t disable them from the outside.”

“So go inside.”

“It’s not that simple. Sir. The alarms are loud and…” Quailfoot blushes with embarrassment, but muscles on admirably. “The sound makes any who hear it become disoriented. Auror Goldstein said you would know what to do.”

 _Ah_ , Percival understands perfectly now. He sighs and then he stands.

“Alright, then,” he says to Quailfoot. “Let’s see what I can do for you.”

Quailfoot sags with relief. “Thank you, sir.”

Percival leads the way to the Apparition point and then holds his arm out to Quailfoot. She balks when she realizes that she had to lead the Side-Along, seeing as she knows the precise location and he does not, but manages to get them there safely. Tina is waiting in the alley they appear in and she jumps to fill Percival in right away.

“I checked the building for signs of life,” she says. “From what I can tell, the place is empty. No people or creatures, just like the informant said, but it is heavily alarmed. Since we don’t know if the alarms also notify the caster, I didn’t want to waste any time trying to figure out how to counteract the disorientation and I thought it would be best to go straight to you.”

“Smart thinking, Goldstein,” he says, the compliment coming easily and honestly. “Which building is it?”

Tina leads him to an innocuous brownstone that positively reeks of magical activity. Percival wandlessly gives it a once over just to ascertain the absence of living beings and finds nothing. He lifts Daphne off his shoulders and passes her off to Tina. Daphne fusses, but settles when Percival gives her a stern look.

“Five minutes,” he tells her and she nods. If he isn’t back in five minutes, Tina will send for a Senior Auror and go in after him.

Percival enters the brownstone with his wand drawn. The door slides shut behind him and he feels a shift in the magic that must be the alarm going off. He feels it prickling at his skin and a bitter taste rises on his tongue, but the world is as silent as it always is these days. He pauses just in case the disorientation is not linked to the sound, but nothing happens.

Percival moves through the first floor, quickly and methodically waving his hand and his wand over all manner of objects. The place is sparsely furnished, clearly not intended for living but rather for stashing illegal artefacts. The floor is dusty and heavily scuffed with footprints, but the plethora of shelves and cases are incriminatingly spotless.

When nothing on the first floor stands out, Percival ascends to the second floor. The rooms up here are just as spare, but there are cots jammed in the corners of the two of the rooms. At the end of the hallway, right above the front door, a heavily dented trophy appears to be vibrating on an end table. Percival approaches it carefully, wand out, and the magic in the air thickens the closer he comes. When he is close enough to read the plaque—a second place prize for a Quidditch match at America’s west coast magical academy—it becomes obvious that this is the source of the alarm.

Percival cuts off the waves of bitter magic with a simple _Silencio_ and then creates a reinforced bell jar over the trophy just to be safe. Done, Percival heads back downstairs and out the front door. He has to hold himself back from searching the place any further, going against all of his well-honed Auror instincts. He has to trust that Tina is in control of the situation; she’s a smart woman and she can handle whatever comes her way.

Daphne leaps from Tina’s arms and into his as soon as he is close enough. Percival catches her easily, almost thoughtlessly, and rubs her under the chin.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” says Tina.

“Back to work now, Goldstein,” he replies, but not without a trace of good humor. “I expect a report on your findings by tonight.”

“Yes, boss.” Tina snaps off a jaunty salute and signals Quailfoot to follow her into the brownstone. Percival returns to the alley and Apparates back to the Woolworth Building.

 

\- - -

 

“I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Percival tells Mathilda later that afternoon. “It’s all going so well, with work and with Newt, that I… I can’t believe any of it is real.”

“Why is that, Percival?” she asks gently.

He shakes his head. “It can’t be this easy and it can’t happen this fast. It’s just not possible.”

“What if I told you it is?”

Percival lets out a humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Then don’t believe me, but don’t sabotage yourself waiting for that other shoe. It’ll only drop when you make it drop.”

 

\- - -

 

Percival’s right knee is getting stronger by the day. The more he works it while he duels, the more it trembles and shakes and slowly strengthens. He becomes less dependent on his cane to walk, but he still uses it to stabilize himself. He has a long way yet to go, but the progress feels like freedom nevertheless.

He and Newt add more complicated steps to their sparring—which mostly consists of figuring out how to alert Percival to an attacker beyond his peripheral vision without including Daphne in the duel.

“Realistically,” Percival says during a water break on Saturday afternoon, “I would have Daphne with me when a fight breaks out.”

He doesn’t like this truth any more than Newt does, but there isn’t anything to be done about it. In the world outside the case, Daphne is never parted from Percival’s shoulders—the single exception being when she hides in his pocket for the brief minutes he is in no-maj sightlines.

“Realistically,” Newt counters, “you would stow her in a pocket the moment a fight breaks out.”

Percival considers this and then concedes the point.

“I suppose we could work out a charm to alert me whenever someone comes up behind me,” he says. “Somehow that feels like a betrayal to Daphne’s hard work.”

Newt laughs. “ _Or_ we could invite Tina and Queenie over and the three of us could team up against you. A trial by fire, so to speak. We won’t know what you need until we see how you do with what you have.”

“That’s a fine idea, Mr. Scamander,” Percival says warmly, he brings Newt’s knuckles to his lips.

Newt plays demure, but there is a bright sparkle in his eye. “Why, thank you, Mr. Graves.”

Percival rises and rounds the table to tug Newt to his feet. The redhead comes readily and meets Percival halfway for a sweet kiss. As has become their wont, Percival takes the moment of distraction to magic a tickling sensation up Newt’s sides. Newt dances away from him, face scrunched into bright laughter, and fumbles his wand out to whisk away the hex.

The rest of the afternoon is spent gamboling around the practice arena, all the formality of traditional dueling happily forgotten. This, more than anything, is excellent practice—Percival is loose and relaxed, able to spin and parry and track Newt visually without worry. He has, over the course of his time with the magizoologist, become acutely aware of Newt’s unique magical signature. Newt’s magic is strong, raw and scarcely contained, just like the creatures in his care and Percival thinks he could pick it out in even the biggest crowd.

This is an emergent strength he has begun to notice more and more as he clears away the bleakness of depression. His magic has always been powerful, apparent in his wandless and wordless casting abilities, but since the loss of his hearing he has become more acutely aware of how magic _feels_ in the air around him. He has plans to hone this into an irrefutable skill.

When the afternoon wears into evening, the men exit the case into Percival’s living room and settle down for a pleasant dinner. These past few days have seen Newt staying over in Percival’s apartment more often than not. The young magizoologist has slowly given up the pretense of being Tina’s guest and returning to her place after spending hours with Percival. This results in a lot of sly and knowing looks at work whenever he crosses paths with either of the Goldstein sisters. Percival likes to respond to these looks with narrowed eyes and a slight exaggeration of his customary scowl, but he knows the women see right through him. Tina and Queenie have very much become the sisters Percival never had. (His mother will be over the moon if she ever finds out, she always wanted a daughter but was cursed instead with two sons before she stopped having children.)

Percival looks across his dining table at Newt and warmth blossoms in his chest. He is struck by how deeply he wants this to last, whatever this unspoken thing he has with Newt is. Later, Percival presses Newt into the blankets and pillows of his bed and maps the scars on the magizoologist’s chest with his lips and his tongue. He feels every gasp and every breath the man makes and takes under his mouth and his fingertips. He relishes in every shiver and every squirm and every drag of those long, sure fingers through his hair and across his shoulders.

This is their first time with intimacy beyond kisses and lingering touches, so Percival takes his time and he takes care. Newt comes to new life beneath him, all flushed cheeks and hazy eyes and the alluring bite of his teeth on his lower lip. Percival can’t pick up the audio cues of what Newt does or does not like, but he trusts the man to let him know through touch. Newt does not disappoint—he writhes and strokes trembling hands down Percival’s back and presses bodily into every worshipful touch. He arches exquisitely off the mattress when Percival drags his tongue from navel to neck and presses his teeth into the tender flesh of Newt’s throat. Fingernails dig deliciously into Percival’s back and he feels a responding rumble vibrate in his chest.

One of Newt’s legs lifts and hooks around Percival’s hip, begging for more in a way he can understand beyond the shadow of a doubt. Percival is all too happy to oblige. He takes it slow; relishes in the act of ensuring that Newt is slick and open and properly ready. Even then, he carries on simply to enjoy the high flush in Newt’s cheeks and the way his chest is heaving and how he reaches so desperately with trembling fingers to urge Percival on already _please just do it I’m ready I’m ready I need it_ …

When they finish, panting and sweaty and sated, they collapse into the sheets face-to-face and Percival waves a sleepy hand to clean away the mess. Newt traces tender fingers over Percival’s cheekbones and cups his jaw with aching sweetness. He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to Percival’s mouth, tugging softly on his lower lip before he pulls away.

Percival wants to ask Newt to stay, to stay and never leave and be with him forever. But he’s afraid to ruin the perfection of this moment, the heavenly afterglow of their first time, so he says nothing. Eventually, Newt’s eyes drift shut and Percival’s breathing deepens and slows and both men slip away into sleep.

 

\- - -

 

“I think the other shoe is dropping,” Percival tells Mathilda when March slips into April. Daphne has shrunken herself back to two feet and is coiled tightly in his lap. She is ever the physical representation of how Percival is feeling.

“What makes you say that?” Mathilda asks.

“Newt wants to leave.”

“Does he want to leave you or does he want to leave New York?” she asks. She is as calm as she always is and Percival has never before found it so irritating.

“Is there a difference?” he asks bitterly.

“Of course there is,” says Mathilda, leaning forward to emphasize her point. “Newt can leave you without leaving New York and he can leave New York without leaving you.”

 

\- - -

 

Percival catches Newt staring out the living room window with faraway eyes for the third time this week. His heart breaks in his chest and he knows he needs to ask—to make sure—but he isn’t confident he can bear to know the answer. Daphne nudges his jaw; she is a tiny thing on his shoulder, gripping his collar and barely able to make one full circuit around his neck. Percival wonders if Newt understands the significance of Daphne’s size—he probably does, seeing as he is so damned perceptive.

Bolstered by Daphne’s support, Percival comes up behind Newt and slips his arms around the slighter man’s waist. Newt is the barest inch taller than him, so Percival settles his face in the crook of Newt’s neck rather than hooking his chin over his shoulder as he would’ve liked to. Newt’s hands rest over his and their fingers lock naturally together.

Unable to ask outright, Percival takes a more roundabout route. “You have no obligation to stay,” he whispers. “I would never dare to keep you here if you prefer to go.”

He feels Newt draw a sharp breath and feels the redhead’s fingers tighten around his. He doesn’t know what this reaction means. Then Newt turns around in his arms, rests his hands on Percival’s chest, fingers fidgeting with the top button of his shirt. He leans back just enough for Percival to read his mouth as he speaks.

“I’m not used to staying in one place for so long,” he admits. He bites his lip. Percival waits. “Now that my book is published, there’s no pressing need for me to go anywhere and… I find that very odd. I’ve never felt that I—” Newt bites his lip again and Percival gives in to his desire to suck that lip into his mouth. They kiss, slowly, deeply, for a long while until Percival pulls reluctantly away.

“You’re an explorer,” he says to Newt. “You need to be out there exploring.” Percival swallows thickly. “I’d rather know you’re out there and happy, than have you here and miserable.”

“I am far from miserable, Percival,” Newt admonishes, an upward quirk in the corners of his mouth. He strokes gentle fingers over Percival’s cheek and draws him in for another long, searing kiss. “I’m rather fond of you, you know,” he says when they part.

“That’s a relief,” Percival chuckles. “I’m rather fond of you, as well.”

 

\- - -

 

Percival has been partially cleared to work in the field and it is an immense relief—more than he could ever express—to leave his desk and step out into the open air. For obvious reasons, he primarily takes Tina (and by extension Quailfoot) with him when he goes out, but he’s been known to snap for Abasi when Tina is unavailable. He has steadily learned the unique magical signatures that belong to each of his Aurors and, as a result, knows which of them is approaching him or calling for him before he turns when Daphne taps his shoulders.

Most cases he follows out into the field are to do with the lingering presence of Grindelwald’s supporters. The dark wizard himself was transferred to the British Ministry for comprehensive trial and sentencing before Percival was rescued, but his following remains. In recent days, that following has made itself known—primarily through minor acts of violence and magic in no-maj populated areas of the city. So far, no true damage has been done and nothing that can’t be fixed by a few seasoned Obliviators. Percival knows it’s only a matter of time before the situation escalates.

Picquery makes her displeasure abundantly clear whenever she catches Percival leaving the office on a Grindelwald related lead—she may have cleared him, but she still has her concerns. Percival makes a point of meeting her eye and giving her a pert nod when he goes. She always frowns and narrows her eyes in return; it’s all part of the on-going game they play to fool everyone into thinking they aren’t good friends.

“What do you see, Quailfoot,” Percival asks on a rare bright Tuesday. They’re in an abandoned studio apartment with large windows that let in a large amount of light. The room is in tatters; the drapery shredded, the mattress overturned, and anything breakable is thoroughly broken. He watches the Junior Auror sidelong, now able to read her lips at any angle due to continued exposure.

“Whoever was here left in a hurry,” she reports correctly. “Likely no more than half an hour before we got here.”

“Half an hour, how can you tell?”

“These stains are fresh.” She indicates a tipped rack of shattered jars and vials. “Whatever they were brewing, the spill hasn’t had time to dry yet.” She pauses, shrugs, and adds, “Also, the neighbor was complaining of noise when we arrived. He thought we were no-maj police. I heard him muttering about response times.”

“Very good.” Quailfoot glows under the praise.

Tina straightens from where she was crouching near the metal bedframe and levitates an object up with her. Her face is grim.

“Definitely a Grindelwald supporter,” she says. The object is a curse box, covered in runic sigils and with a familiar triangular symbol carved onto padlock.

Percival grimaces. “We’ll bring that back to be properly checked out by the Artefacts Department. Quailfoot, collect some samples from those potion bottles. I want to know what this person was trying to brew.”

“Yes, sir,” says Quailfoot. Percival watches for a moment while the Junior Auror goes through the correct procedure for collecting samples of foreign and unknown substances and feels a glimmer of pride. He supposes this sort of procedure is something she’ll never forget, considering her past experience, but regardless it is always satisfying to see a new recruit flourish in the field.

“You did very well today,” he tells Quailfoot that evening when she drops off a comprehensive report on the day’s work.

“Thank you, Director,” she says, a pleased uptick to her mouth.

“Keep it up.”

“I will, sir.” She gives him a polite nod, though she is still fighting a grin, and marches out of his office. The door doesn’t have time to close behind her before Tina is stepping inside.

“Brangham says he’ll have the potion samples analyzed and ready by tomorrow, late afternoon at the earliest,” she says without preamble. Percival nods. Tina parks herself in one of the available chairs and looks like she’s considering putting her boots up on his desk. She catches his eye and he lifts an eyebrow; Tina wisely does not put her boots up on his desk.

“Anything else, Goldstein.”

The use of her last name and the purposely impersonal tone makes her chuckle. Then she sobers and Percival thinks he knows what she wants to talk about.

“Have you spoken to Newt?” she asks carefully.

“I do nothing but,” says Percival with a sigh. “I know he wants to leave.”

Tina nods, more to herself than to him. “He was telling me about his diricawl hen and her chicks over lunch the other day. The chicks are big enough to go back into the wild and that means…”

“I know what it means.”

“Then you need to bring it up with him,” Tina tells him earnestly. “Morgana knows he won’t, he’s afraid to make you upset.”

“That man,” Percival says with a heavy sigh. He runs his hands over his hair. “Yes, I’ll… I’ll talk to him when I get home.” He ignores the way Tina wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at the implication of their living together. “I admit I’ve been a bit… A bit afraid myself of what his answer will be.”

“Wow,” says Tina, her expression shocked and then impressed. “I can’t believe you admitted that.”

The old Percival Graves—the Percival Graves from _Before_ —would have never admitted to anything making him afraid or even the slightest bit worried. Oh, how times have changed.

He fixes Tina with hard stare. “If this ever leaves my office, I will know precisely who to go after.”

“Cross my heart, sir, I won’t tell a soul.” Tina is humoring him, he can see it in her face, but he also knows that she isn’t one for gossip and rumor-milling.

“I’ll speak to him,” he says again, “Merlin knows I only want his happiness.”

“Don’t we all?” Tina chuckles. “Newt tends to have that effect.”

 

\- - -

 

Percival brings it up after dinner. They’ve moved to the living room and are enjoying the glowing heat from the fireplace. Daphne is coiled up on the rug in front of the hearth with her belly towards the flames, lower lids half-raised in total contentment. Pickett is on Newt’s shoulder, clinging to redhead’s ear and staring at the fire mistrustfully despite Newt’s soothing.

Percival squeezes Newt’s knee and the magizoologist rotates to face him.

“Yes, love,” he says sweetly.

Percival swallows, sighs, and steels himself.

“You ought to leave,” he says, blurting out the worst of it before he can back out. At the devastated expression on Newt’s face, he hurries to elaborate. “I can see how badly you want to go back out into the world. I want you to be happy, Newt, and you’re happiest when you’re out there with your creatures.”

Newt manages a smile and cups a hand to Percival’s cheek. “Just because I want to go, doesn’t mean I want to leave you.”

“I know.”

Newt leans forward and presses a long kiss to Percival’s lips. When he pulls back, his eyes are shining and his lips are stretched into a wobbly smile.

“I really don’t want to leave you, Percival,” he says.

“I know.”

“It’s just that I… I miss the open air and my diricawl chicks…”

“I know.” Percival leans in and kisses Newt. He cradles the redhead’s face in his hands and kisses him again and again. “My life is here and I’ve finally taken it back.” It feels good to say those words and Percival will always treasure the pride he feels at saying them and the mirrored pride in Newt’s eyes. “And, Newt, you will always be welcomed back and I do hope you will come back.”

“Of course, I will,” Newt promises. “How could I possibly stay away?”

“I think I might…” Percival strokes his thumbs over Newt’s delicate cheekbones. “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

Newt beams and throws his arms around Percival’s shoulders. Pickett jumps clear and waves his leafy hands angrily at the men, but neither pay him any mind. They hold each other for long while and when they finally pull apart, Newt cards his fingers through the hair at the nape of Percival’s neck.

“I think I might be falling in love with you, too.”

 

\- - -

 

“This is our first meeting after we switched to every other week,” says Mathilda. “How did you find it?”

“Fine,” replies Percival. Daphne is periscoping off his shoulder; she’s been back to four feet long since he and Newt had their fireside conversation three weeks ago. Her talons are digging into the shoulder of Percival’s coat and her half-spread wings have thoroughly messed up the back of his hair.

“And this is your first week without Newt, correct?”

“Yes.” Percival reaches up to rub Daphne’s long throat with his fingertips. He can feel her cooing happily.

“And how has that been?”

Percival hesitates, turning over the answer in his head before putting it to words. “I miss him,” he confesses frankly, “more than I thought I would. Just this morning, however, I got an owl from him. He’s in Mauritius reintroducing a family of diricawl to the wild. Reading that letter… It was like having him in the room with me, I could picture him perfectly saying the words to me.”

“So you’re doing well without him,” says Mathilda, not properly a question, but not a completely observation.

“I am,” says Percival. “It’s a relief, actually, knowing I can still function alone. Newt's had such a presence during my recovery and I never used to like the thought of being in such a close relationship. I always thought it would make me dependent on someone and that would make for an obvious weakness. But… I’m not the man I used to be and, honestly, Newt is exceptional.”

Mathilda smiles at him widely. “Going back a half-step, what kind of man are you now?”

“A better one,” Percival replies promptly, “and not just because of Newt, though he has certainly had an effect on me. I think I’m better because I’m deaf.” It was a startling revelation when Percival made it some days ago, but he’s had time to mull it over and understand it and he has found that it is the absolute truth.

Mathilda’s eyebrows rise. “How so?”

“I am more aware of everything around me and far more observant. I can read people and I can feel the way magic shifts in the air, sometimes I can honestly taste it, too. Being deaf has made me a better Auror, a better Director, and a better person.” Percival chuckles. “I suppose I should thank Grindelwald. He thought he could cripple me, make me weak and useless, but in actuality he has only made me greater.”

“That’s an impressive attitude to have,” Mathilda tells him. “I’m proud of you, Percival. You have made incredible progress and come a long way.”

“Thank you,” says Percival. “I’m quite proud of myself as well.”

 

\- - -

 

Since Newt left for Mauritius, Percival has noticed things disappearing from his kitchen. Nothing terribly important, just slices of cold cuts and the occasional pastry. Sometimes he enters the kitchen to find the little window over the sink open—the same window that bears the flower-box for luring in insects for Daphne to eat.

At first he thinks nothing of it, but after a week it’s beginning to bother him. The evening after he meets with Mathilda, Percival finds that the chicken breast he set aside to thaw for dinner is gone and he sets about searching the apartment for the culprit. He starts with the kitchen and when he finds nothing amiss, he progresses to the living room. In the living room, he practically overturns the couch in his search and nearly dismantles his chest of drawers. Nearly because upon yanking open the bottom drawer he discovers that it has been Extended and now contains a familiar bamboo nest and six friendly faces.

The occamy chicks burst from their hiding place, jawing frantically in what can only be screeches of excitement, and immediately pull Daphne into exuberant play. Percival has no doubt that this was Newt’s doing, though why he wouldn’t give Percival any forewarning is a mystery. Regardless, he is thrilled to have them, both because he adores the occamys in particular and because it stands as an irrefutable promise that Newt will return.

Daphne twines herself around her friends, still twice their size, and flaps her wings over their heads. They tumble and squeak and leap up to tackle her back down in a joyous play-fight.

Percival sits back on his heels and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. Thanks again for reading, I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Honestly, there's a chance I'll write more Deaf!Graves. I have a bunch of scenes and little moments that didn't make it into the story. Just don't hold your breath, it all depends on if I have the time..
> 
> Thanks again! You are all wonderful!!

**Author's Note:**

> Elements of the story are inspired by ‘Touch’ by gypsiangel and ‘Happy to Help’ by pinchess07 (one of my favorite writers on AO3), the tumblr-born headcannon that Graves is the Gordon Ramsay of Aurors and another post about the Greebo Solution that supplements Schrodinger’s Cat—the cat is either alive, dead, or bloody furious—which basically boils down to Graves coming back better than ever and bloody furious no matter was Grindelwald throws at him.


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